
m!R. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf .-"E.-J,. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE BOOK 



OF 



LATTER-DAY BALLADS. 



THE BOOK 



OF 



Latter-Day Ballads. 



(1858-1888.) 

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 

HENRY F-RANDOLPH, 

t I 
EDITOR OF ' FIFTY YEARS OF ENGLISH SONG. 




NEW YORK: 
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO. 






^\ 



Copyright, 1888, 
By Anson D. F. Randolph & Co. 




^. 



John Wilson and Son, Cambridge 



Ux\TO 

J. H. F-R. 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED. 



PREFACE. 



Professor Seeley has recently remarked that worth 
and brevity are the two things necessary to insure im- 
mortahty to any literary production. The latter of these 
two qualifications belongs peculiarly to the ballad, and it 
is not therefore strange that good ballads have outlived 
other equally meritorious but more pretentious poetry. 
Of the old ballad poetry there are many excellent edi- 
tions, notably that edited by Mr. Allingham and pub- 
lished in the ' Golden Treasury ' series. Mr. Stoddard, 
in his 'Ballads and Romances,' has included not only 
the older and modern authors, but a species of composi- 
tion which, as the title of the volume implies, does not 
come under the head of ballad poetry. The present 
volume is intended to occupy a place of its own, in that 
it is devoted exclusively to ballads, and includes only 
those which have been published within the last thirty 
years (1858-1888). 

It may be a matter of surprise to those who have not 
had the time to form an acquaintance with contemporary 



viii Preface. 

verse, to discover how many excellent ballads have been 
written during that period. The volume published by 
Lord Tennyson in 1880 contained such excellent work 
in this direction as forever to silence those captious 
critics who were complaining that the Laureate's verse 
sacrificed strength to finish. * The King's Tragedy,' by 
Mr. D. G. Rossetti, has been pronounced 'the finest 
ballad of modern times ; ' and even those \\\\o might 
dissent from such an unqualified opinion will accord 
high praise to the strength and beauty of the lines. It 
is a pity that an age capable of producing such good 
work has not produced even still more. The many 
affectations which have crept into current verse — nota- 
bly the revival of obsolete French forms — ought to be 
a matter of regret, if for no other reason than that they 
seem to be destructive of the development of those more 
virile qualities which are essential to a good ballad. 

While accepting the simple definition of a ballad, that 
it should be in rhyme and possess vigorous and dramatic 
action, I have been influenced in the choice of subjects 
only to the extent of avoiding the selection of two bal- 
lads which have the same subject. The one exception 
allowed to this rule is the ' Ballad of the Thulian Nurse ' 
and the ' Ballad of Isobel,' both of which have for their 
subject the beautiful legend of Hallowe'en ; but the treat- 
ment in each is so different as to avoid anything like 
repetition. By the observance of this rule a large variety 
of subjects has been secured, from the theological doc- 



Preface. ix 

trine of the final restoration of all souls, which forms the 
viotifm the ' Ballad of Judas Iscariot/ to a horse-race or 
boat-race. Ballads, in fact, may be broadly divided into 
two classes, — the one, in which both subject and treat- 
ment contribute to the dignity of the ballad ; the other, 
in which the treatment lends dignity to what is in itself 
a more or less undignified subject. Instances of the 
former class are too numerous to need specification. An 
excellent illustration of the latter class is furnished by 
the ' Doncaster St. Leger.' Nothing, at first sight, could 
seem less suited to the dignity required in a true ballad 
than a horse-race ; but Sir Francis Doyle has in vigorous 
verse raised so commonplace a subject to the level of 
the truly dramatic by expanding the thought expressed 
in his own lines : — 

' And during all that anxious time 
(Sneer as it suits you at my rhyme) 
The earnestness became sublime ; 
Common and trite as is the scene, 
At once so thrilling and so mean, 
To him who strives his heart to scan, 
And feels the brotherhood of man. 
That needs imist be a mighty minute, 
When a crowd has but one soul within it.' 

Humorous verse has been rigorously excluded, — a 
rule of easy observance, as there are few humorous bal- 
lads which deserve on their own merits anything better 
than an ephemeral existence. One need not be guilty 



X Preface. 

of the fashionable sin of pessimism, to detect in the best 
modern poetry what Mr. ?^Iatthe\v Arnold has so finely 
called ' the eternal note of sadness.' In ballad poetry 
especially, it is only the grave and serious, not infre- 
quently rising to the tragic, which commands more than 
a fleeting attention. 

As the object of the present selection is to indicate 
the growth and extent of English and American ballad 
literature during the last thirty years, no author has been 
allotted more than a single selection. The ballads have 
been arranged in chronological order, and their date of 
publication has been fixed by their first appearance in 
book form, without reference to their prior appearance in 
newspaper or magazine. Fugitive ballads — of which 
there are many excellent ones — have for this reason 
been excluded. 

I must express my regret that the present volume 
very imperfecdy represents the work of American poets. 
Many authors are omitted entirely, while others are rep- 
resented by selections which I am sadly conscious is 
not their best work. In excuse for this defect, I can 
only plead the unwillingness on the part of various pub- 
lishers to grant me the necessary permission to use 
pieces of which they owned the copyright. 



HENRY F-RANDOLPH. 



Grey-Nook. Lake George, 

September 14, 1S8S. 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 



The Publishers of The Book of Latter- Day Bal- 
lads acknowledge the permission of Messrs. Houghton., 
Mifflin., &= Co. to use the poems of Mr. fames Russell 
Lowell., Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, Mr. John Hay., 
Mr. John Greenleaf Whittier., Mr. Francis Bret Harte, 
and Mrs. Margaret J. Preston ; that of Messrs. Charles 
Scribner's Sons to use the poems of Mr. Richard Henry 
Stoddard, Mr. Sidney Lanier, and Mr. A. C. Gordon; 
that of Messrs. Cupples &^ Hurd to use the selection by 
Miss Louise Lfnogen Guiney. They also desire to acknowl- 
edge the specific permissio7t accorded by the following 
authors : Messrs. E. C. Stedman and John Hay, and 
Mrs. Margaret J. Preston. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Haystack in the Fr.ooDS i 

Sir Richard Grenville's Last Fight 8 

The Forced Recruit 13 

The Love-Child 15 

The Courtin' 17 

Willy Gilliland 21 

Ballad of the Thulian Nurse 27 

The Doncaster St. Leger 31 

Winstanley 39 

The Mass for the Dead 51 

The Doorstep 57 

Jessie Cameron 59 

A Woman's Love 64 

In School-Days 66 

A Story of Naples 68 

Dickens in Camp 78 

The Death of th' Ovvd Squire 80 

Before Sedan 86 

The Ballad of Judas Iscariot 88 

Woodstock Maze 96 

Hajarlis lOI 



LATTER-DAY BALLADS, 



By William Morris. 

THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS. 

Had she come all the way for this, 
To part at last without a kiss ? 
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain 
That her own eyes might see him slain 
Beside the haystack in the floods ? 

Along the dripping leafless woods. 
The stirrup touching either shoe, 
She rode astride as troopers do, 
With kirtle kilted to her knee, 
To which the mud splashed wretchedly; 
And the wet dripped from every tree 
Upon her head and heavy hair. 
And on her eyelids broad and fair ; 
The tears and rain ran down her face. 
By fits and starts they rode apace, 
And very often was his place 
Far off from her: he had to ride 



Latter- Day Ballads. 

Ahead, to see what might betide 

When the roads crossed ; and sometimes, when 

There rose a murmuring from his men. 

Had to turn back with promises. 

Ah, me ! she had but little ease ; 

And often for pure doubt and dread 

She sobbed, made giddy in the head 

By the swift riding ; while, for cold, 

Her slender fingers scarce could hold 

The wet reins ; yea, and scarcely too 

She felt the foot within her shoe 

Against the stirrup : all for this. 

To part at last without a kiss 

Beside the haystack in the floods. 

For when they neared that old soaked hay, 

They saw across the only way 

That Judas, Godmar, and the three 

Red running lions dismally 

Grinned from his pennon, under which. 

In one straight line along the ditch. 

They counted thirty heads. 

So then, 
While Robert turned round to his men. 
She saw at once the wretched end. 
And stooping down tried hard to rend 
Her coif the wrong way from her head, 
And hid her eyes ; while Robert said: 
' Nay, love, 't is scarcely two to one, 
At Poictiers where we made them run 



The Haystack in the Floods. 

So fast : why, sweet my love, good cheer, 
The Gascon frontier is so near, 
Nought after this.' 

But, ' O,' she said, 
* My God ! my God ! I have to tread 
The long way back without you : then 
The court at Paris ; those six men ; 
The gratings of the Chatelet ; 
The swift Seine on some rainy day 
Like this, and people standing by 
And laughing, while my weak hands try 
To recollect how strong men swim. 
All this, or else a life with him, 
For which I should be damned at last. 
Would God that this next hour were past : ' 

He answered not, but cried his cry, 
' St. George for Marny ! ' cheerily. 
And laid his hand upon her rein. 
Alas ! no man of all his train 
Gave back that cheery cry again ; 
And while for rage his thumb beat fast 
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast 
About his neck a kerchief long, 
And bound him. 

Then they went along 
To Godmar ; who said : ' Now, Jehane, 
Your lover's life is on the wane 
So fast, that, if this very hour 



Latter-Day Ballads. 

You yield not as my paramour, 
He will not see the rain leave off — 
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff, 
Sir Robert, or I slay you now.' 

She laid her hand upon her brow. 

Then gazed upon the palm, as though 

She thought her forehead bled, and — ' No,' 

She said, and turned her head away, 

As there were nothing else to say. 

And everything were settled. Red 

Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: 

* Jehane, on yonder hill there stands 
My castle, guarding well my lands : 
What hinders me from taking you, 
And doing that I list to do 

To your fair wilful body, while 
Your knight lies dead 1 ' 

A wicked smile 
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, 
A long way out she thrust her chin : 

• You know that I should strangle you 
While you were sleeping ; or bite through 
Your throat, by God's help — ah ! ' she said, 
' Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid ! 

For in such wise they hem me in, 
I cannot choose but sin and sin, 
Whatever happens : yet I think 
They could not make me eat or drink, 
And so should I just reach my rest.' 



TJie Haystack in the Floods. 

' Nay, if you do not my behest, 

O Jehane ! though I love you well,' 

Said Godmar, ' would I fail to tell 

All that I know — ' ' Foul lies ! ' she said. 

' Eh ! lies, my Jehane ? By God's head, 

At Paris folks would deem them true ! 

Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you, 

"Jehane the brown ! Jehane the brown ! 

Give us Jehane to burn or drown ! " 

Eh — gag me, Robert ! — sweet my friend, 

This were indeed a piteous end 

For those long fingers, and long feet. 

And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet, — 

An end that few men would forget 

That saw it. So, an hour yet : 

Consider, Jehane, which to take 

Of life or death ! ' 

So, scarce awake, 
Dismounting, did she leave that place. 
And totter some yards : with her face 
Turned upward to the sky she lay, 
Her head on a wet heap of hay. 
And fell asleep ; and while she slept, 
And did not dream, the minutes crept 
Round to the twelve again; but she, 
Being waked at last, sighed quietly. 
And strangely childlike came, and said, 
' I will not.' Straightway Godmar's head, 
As though it hung on strong wires, turned 
Most sharply round, and his face burned. 



Latter-Day Ballads. 

For Robert — both his eyes were dry ; 
He could not weep, but gloomily 
He seemed to watch the rain; yea, too. 
His lips were firm ; he tried once more 
To touch her lips ; she reached out, sore 
And vain desire so tortured them, 
The poor gray lips, and now the hem 
Of his sleeve brushed them. 

With a start 
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart ; 
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands 
Of silk and mail; with empty hands 
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw 
The long bright blade without a flaw 
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand 
In Robert's hair; she saw him bend 
Back Robert's head ; she saw him send 
The thin steel down. The blow told well ; 
Right backward the knight Robert fell. 
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, 
Unwitting, as I deem ; so then 
Godmar turned grinning to his men, 
Who ran, some five or six, and beat 
His head to pieces at their feet. 



Then Godmar turned again and said 
'So, Jehane, the first fitte is read ! 
Take note, my lady, that your way 
Lies backward to the Chatelct!' 



TJie Haystack in the Floods. 

She shook her head and gazed awhile 
At her cold hands with a rueful smile, 
As though this thing had made her mad. 

This was the parting that they had 
Beside the haystack in the floods. 



Latter- Day Ballads. 



By Gerald Massey. 

SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S LAST 
FIGHT. 

Our second Richard Lion Heart, 

In days of Great Queen Bess, 
He did this deed of righteous rage, 

And true old nobleness ; 
With wrath heroic that was nurst 
To bear the fiercest battle-burst, 
When willing foes should wreak their worst. 

Signalled the English Admiral, 

' Weigh or cut anchors.' For 
A Spanish fleet bore down, in all 

The majesty of war. 
Athwart our tack for many a mile, 
As there we lay off Florez Isle, 
With crews half sick, all tired of toil. 

Eleven of our twelve ships escaped ; 

Sir Richard stood alone ! 
Though they were three-and-tifty sail, — 

A hundred men to one, — 
The old sea rover would not run. 
So long as he had man or gun ; 
But he could die when all was done. 



Sir Richard Grenvilles Last Fizht. 



tb' 



' The Devil 's broken loose, my lads, 

In shape of Popish Spain ; 
And we must sink him in the sea, 

Or hound him home again. 
Now, you old sea-dogs, show your paws ! 
Have at them tooth and nail and claws !' 
And then his long, bright blade he draws. 

The deck was cleared, the boatswain blew ; 

The grim sea-lions stand; 
The death-fires lit in every eye, 

The burning match in hand. 
With mail of glorious intent 
All hearts were clad; and in they went, 
A force that cut through where 't was sent. 

* Push home, my hardy pikemen, 

P^or we play a desperate part ; 
To-day, my gunners, let them feel 

The pulse of England's heart ! 
They shall remember long that we 
Once lived ; and think how shamefully 
We shook them, — one to fifty-three ! ' 

With face of one who cheerly goes 

To meet his doom that day, 
Sir Richard sprang upon his foes ; 

The foremost gave him way: 
His round shot smashed them through and through. 
The great white splinters fiercely flew. 
And madder grew his fighting few. 



10 Latter- Day Ballads. 

They clasp the little ship Revenge 

As in the arms of fire ; 
They run aboard her, six at once ; 

Hearts beat and guns leap higher. 
Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm, 
But still our English stay the storm. 
The bulwark in their breast is lirm. 

Ship after shi]i, like broken waves 

That wash up on a rock. 
Those mighty galleons fall back foiled, 

And shattered from the shock. 
With fire she answers all their blows; 
Again, again in pieces strows 
The burning girdle of her foes. 

Through all the night the great white storm 

Of worlds in silence rolled; 
Sirius with his sapphire sparkle. 

Mars in ruddy gold. 
Heaven looked with stillness terrible 
Down on a fight most fierce and fell, — 
A sea transfigured into hell. 

Some know not of their wounds until 

'Tis slippery where they stand; 
Then each one tighter grips his steel, 

As 't were salvation's hand. 
Wild faces glow through lurid night 
With sweat of spirit shining bright: 
Only the dead on deck turn white. 



Sir Richard Grcnvillcs Last FigJit. 1 1 

At (layl)rcak the flamc-picturo fades, 

In blackness and in blood ; 
There, after (iftccn hours of (ight. 

The unconcjuered Sea Kin<j^ stood, 
Defyini;' all tlie power of Spain : 
Fifteen Armadas hurled in vain, 
And fifteen hundred foenian slain. 

Around (hat little bark Keven<j^e 

The baffled Spaniards ride 
At distance. Two of their <;ood ships 

Were sunken at her side; 
The rest lie round her in a ring. 
As round the dyinp^ lion kin<j^ 
The dogs, afraid of his death-spring. 

Our pikes all broken, powder spent, 
Sails, masts to shreds were blown; 

And with her dead and wounded crew 
The ship was gt)ing down ! 

Sir Richard's wounds were hot and deep. 

Then cried he, with a proud, pale lip, 

' Ho, gunner, split and sink the ship ! 

' Make ready now, my mariners. 

To go aloft with me. 
That nothing to the Spaniard 

May remain of victory. 
They cannot take us, nor we yield ; 
So let us leave our battle-field 
Under the shelter of God's shield.' 



Latter-Day Ballads. 

Tliey had not heart to dare fulfil 

The stern commander's word : 
With bloody hands and weeping eyes 

They carried him aboard 
The Spaniards' ship; and round him stand 
The warriors of his wasted band : 
Then said he, feeling death at hand, 

*Here die I, Richard Grenville, 

With a joyful and quiet mind; 
I reach a soldier's end, I leave 

A soldier's fame behind. 
Who for his queen and country fought. 
For honor and religion wrought. 
And died as a true soldier ought.' 

Earth never returned a worthier trust 

For hand of Heaven to take, 
Since Arthur's sword Excalibur 

Was cast into the lake. 
And the king's grievous wounds were dressed 
And healed by weeping queens, who blessed. 
And bore him to a valley of rest. 

Old heroes who could grandly do. 

As they could greatly dare, — 
A vesture very glorious 

Their shining spirits wear. 
Of noble deeds. God give us grace, 
That we may see such face to face, 
In our great day that comes apace. 



The Forced Recruit. 13 



By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
THE FORCED RECRUIT. 

SOLFERINO, 1859. 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him, 

He died with his face to you all ; 
Yet bury him here where around him 

You honor your bravest that fall. 

Venetian, fair-featured and slender, 

He lies shot to death in his youth, 
With a smile on his lips over^tender 

For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 

No stranger, and yet not a traitor, 
Thougli alien the cloth on his breast ; 

Underneath it how seldom a greater 
Young heart has a shot sent to rest ! 

By your enemy tortured and goaded 
To march with them, stand in their file, 

His musket (see) never was loaded. 
He facing your guns with that smile ! 

As orphans yearn on to their mothers. 
He yearned to your patriot bands, — 

' Let me die for our Italy, brothers, 
If not in your ranks, by your hands ! 



14 Latter- Day Ballads. 

* Aim straightly, fire steadily ! spare me 

A ball in the body which may 
Deliver my heart here, and tear me 

This badge of the Austrian away ! ' 

So thought he, so died he this morning. 

What then ? many others have died. 
Ay, but easy for men to die scorning 

The death-stroke, who fought side by side, - 

One tricolor floating above them ; 

Struck down mid triumphant acclaims 
Of an Italy rescued to love them. 

And brazen the brass with their names. 

But he, without witness or honor, 

Mixed, shamed in his country's regard, 

With the tyrants who march in upon her, 
Died faithful and passive: 'twas hard. 

'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction 
Cut off from the guerdon of sons, 

With most filial obedience, conviction. 
His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 

That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to show it, 
While digging a grave for him here : 

The others who died, says your poet, 
Have glory, — let ///;// have a tear. 



The Love-Child. 15 

By William Barnes. 

THE LOVE-CHILD. 

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride, 

Wi' his wide arches' cool sheaded bow, 
Up above the clear brook that did slide 

By the popples, befoamed white as snow: 
As the gilcups did quiver among 

The white deaisies, a-spread in a sheet, 
There a quick-trippen maid come along, — 

Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppen veet. 

An' she cried, ' I do pray, is the road 

Out to Lincham on here, by the mead ?' 
An' ' Oh, ees,' I meade answer, an' showed 

Her the way it would turn an' would lead : , 
' Goo along by the beech in the nook, 

Where the childern do play in the cool, 
To the steppen stwones over the brook, — 

Aye, the gray blocks o' rock at the pool. 

' Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred,' 

I spoke up, ' at a place here about ; ' 
An' she answered wi' cheaks up so red 

As a pi'ny but leate a-come out : 
'No, I lived wi' my uncle that died 

Back in Eapril, an' now I 'm a-come 
Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide, — 

Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome ; ' 



1 6 La t to -Day Ballads. 

I 'm asheiimed that I wanted to know 

Any mwore of her childhood or life, 
But then, why should so feair a child grow 

Where noo father did bide wi' his wife ? 
Then wi' blushes of zunrisen morn. 

She replied, ' That it midden be known, 
Oh, they zent me away to be born, — 

Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown ! ' 

Oh, it meade me a'most teary-eyed. 

An' I vound I a'most could ha' groaned ; 
What ! so wnnn^n, an' still cast a-zide, — 

What I so lovely, an* not to be owned ! 
Oh, a God-gift a-treated wi' scorn ; 

Oh, a child that a squier should own ; 
An' to zend her away to be born, — 

Aye, to hide her where others be shown ! 



Tlie ConrtitC. ly 



By Jatnes Russell Loxuell. 



THE COURTIN'. 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, 
An' peeked in thru the winder. 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in — 

There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her! 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crooknecks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 



1 8 Latter-Day Ballads. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur ; 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A i, 
Clean grit an' human natur' ; 

None could n't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he could n't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple ; 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My ! when he made 01 e Hunderd ring, 

She knoTved \\\Q: Lord was nigher. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer. 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 



The Courtin'. 19 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some I 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew, 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 

Ez though she wished him furder, 
An' on her apples kep' to work, 

Parin' away like murder. 

' You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? ' 

' Wal, no ; I come dasignin' — ' 
* To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 

Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.' 

To say why gals act so or so. 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; 
Mebby to meanj/^i- an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 

Then stood a spell on t' other. 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 



20 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Says he, ' I 'd better call agin ; ' 
Says she, ' Think likely. Mister:' 

That last word pricked him like a pin, 
An' — wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressin'. 

Tell mother see how metters stood. 
And gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to tlie Bay o' Fundy, 

An' all I know is they was cried 
In meetin', come nex' Sunday. 



Willy Gilliland. 21 



By Sir Samuel Fergusson. 



WILLY GILLILAND. 

AN ULSTER BALLAD. 

Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring, 

He has worshipped God upon the hill, in spite of church 

and king; 
And sealed his treason with his blood on Bothwell bridge 

he hath, 
So he must fly his father's land, or he must die the death ; 
For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim Dalzell, 
And his smoking roof-tree testifies they 've done their 

errand well. 

In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land, 
Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick strand ; 
His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was on his head, 
A fortune to the man that brings him in alive or dead ! 
And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan to the Bann, 
From house to house, and hill to hill, he lurked an out- 
lawed man. 

At last, when in false company he might no longer bide, 
He staid his houseless wanderings upon the Collon side, 
There in a cave all underground he laired his heathy den. 
Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill fox then ! 



22 Latter-Day Ballads, 

With hound and lishing-rod he lived on hill and stream by 

day ; 
At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and his bonny mare 

he lay. 

It was a summer evening, and. mellowing and still. 
Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill to hill ; 
For all that valley pastoral held neither house nor tree, 
But spread abroad and open all, a full fair sight to see, 
From Slemish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken green, 
Save where in many a silver coil the river glanced between. 

And on the river's grassy bank, even from the morning gray, 
He at the angler's pleasant sport had spent the summer day: 
Ah ! many a time and oft I 've spent the summer day from 

dawn, 
And wondered, when the sunset came, where time and care 

had gone. 
Along the reaches curling fresh, the wimpling pools and 

streams. 
Where he that day his cares forgot in those delightful 

dreams. 

His blithe work done, upon a bank the outlaw rested now, 
And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet from his 

brow ; 
And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod, 
He filled the lonely valley with the gladsome word of God ; 
And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs dear. 
And against a godless church and king he spoke up loud 

and clear. 



Wil/y Gil Ulan d. 23 

And now, upon his homeward way, lie crossed the Collon 

hi-h, 
And over bush and bank and brae he sent abroad his eye ; 
l>ut all was darkening peacefully in <;ray and purple haze, 
The thrush was silent in the l)anks, the lark upon the 

braes ; 
When suddenly shot up a bla/.e, — from the cave's mouth it 

came ; 
And trooj)ers' steeds and troopers' caps are glancing in the 

same ! 

He couched among the heather, and he saw them, as he 

lay, 
With three long yells at parting, ride lightly east away : 
Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry cheer 

came he, 
For ashes black were crackling where the green whins 

used to be, 
And stretched among the prickly coomb, his heart's blood 

smoking round. 
From slender nose to breastbone cleft, lay dead his good 

greyhound ! 

'They've slain my dog, the IMiilistincs ! they've ta'en my 

bonny mare ! ' 
He plunged into the smoky hole, — no bonny beast was 

there ; 
He groined beneath his burning bed (it burned him to the 

bone), 
Where his good weapon used to be, but broadsword there 

was none ; 



24 Latter-Day Ballads. 

He reeled out of the stifling den, and sat down on a stone. 
And in the shadows of the night 't was thus he made his 
moan : — 

' I am a houseless outcast ; I have neither bed nor board. 
Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort, save the Lord : 
Yet many a time were better men in worse extremity; 
Who succored them in their distress, He now will succor 

me, — 
He now will succor me, I know : and. by His holy Name. 
I '11 make the doers of this deed right dearly rue the same ! 

' My bonny mare ! I 've ridden you when Claver'se rode 

behind, 
And from the thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like 

the wind : 
And wliile I have the life you saved, on your sleek flank, 

I swear. 
Episcopalian rowel shall never ruftle hair ! 
Though sword to wield they've left me none, yet Wallace 

wight. I wis. 
Good battle did on Irvine side wi' waur weapon than this." 

His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it as he spoke. 
And where the butt and top were spliced, in pieces twain 

he broke ; 
The limber top he cast away, with all its gear abroad, 
But, grasping the tough hickory butt, w^ith spike of iron 

shod. 
He ground the sharp spear to a point; then pulled his 

bonnet down, 
And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Carrick town. 



lVi//y G mil and, 25 

The sun shines bright on Carrick wall and Carrick Castle 

gray, 
And up thine aisle, Saint Nicholas, has ta'en his morning 

way ; 
And to the North-Gate sentinel displayeth far and near 
Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy freshness 

clear, 
Save where, behind a ruined wall, himself alone to view, 
Is peering from the ivy green a bonnet of the blue. 

The sun shines red on Carrick wall and Carrick castle old, 
And all the western buttresses have changed their gray for 

gold ; 
And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas, the pilgrim of the sky 
Hath gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal votary ; 
But as his last red glance he takes down past black Slieve- 

a-true. 
He leaveth where he found it first the bonnet of the blue. 

Again he makes the turrets gray stand out before the hill ; 
Constant as their foundation rock, there is the bonnet still ! 
And now the gates are opened, and forth in gallant show 
Prick jeering grooms and burghers blithe, and troopers in 

a row ; 
But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is he. 
To ride the outlaw's bonny mare, for this at last is she ! 

Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a groan, 
The iron and the hickory are through and through him 

gone ! 
He lies a corpse ; and where he sat, the outlaw sits again. 



26 Lattcr-Day Ballads. 

And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and 

rein ; 
Then some with sword, and some with gun, they ride and 

run amain ; 
But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day they phed 

in vain ! 

Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on Skerry side 
Drew^ bridle first, and wiped his brow after that weary ride. 
That where he lay like hunted brute, a caverned outlaw 

lone, 
Broad lands and yeomen tenantry should yet be there his 

own ; 
Yet so it was; and still from him descendants not a few 
Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw love of Free- 
dom too. 



Ballad of the Thulian Nurse. 27 



By George Macdonald. 



BALLAD OF THE THULIAN NURSE. 



' Sweep up the flure, Janet ; 

Put on anither peat ; 
It 's a lown and starry nicht, Janet, 

And neither cauld nor weet. 

' And it 's open hoose we keep the nicht 

For ony that may be oot. 
It 's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls, 

Whan the bodiless gang aboot. 

'Set the chairs back to the \va', Janet ; 

Mak' ready for quaiet fowk. 
Hae a' thing as clean as a win'in'-sheet : 

They come na ilka 00k. 

' There 's a spale upo' the flure, Janet, 

And there 's a rowan-berry ; 
Sweep them into the fire, Janet, — 

They '11 be welcomer than merry. 



28 Latter-Day Ballads. 

' Syne set open the door, Janet — 
Wide open for wha kens wha; 

As ye come benn to yer bed, Janet, 
Set it open to the wa'.' 

She set the chairs back to the wa', 

But ane made o' the birk ; 
She sweepit the flure, — left that ae spale, 

A lang spale o' the aik. 

The nicht was lowne, and the stars sat still, 

Aglintin' doon the sky ; 
And the souls crap oot o' their mooly graves, 

A' dank wi' lyin' by. 

She had set the door wide to the wa'. 
And blawn the peats rosy reed ; 

They war shoonless feet gaed oot and in, 
Nor clampit as they gaed. 

Whan midnicht cam', the mither rase — 

She wad gae see and hear. 
Back she cam' wi' a glowerin' face. 

And sloomin' wi' verra fear. 

'There 's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire ! 

Janet, gang na to see : 
Ye left a chair afore the fire, 

Whaur I tauld ye nae chair sud be.' 

Janet she smiled in her mother's face : 
She had brunt the noddin rcid ; 

And she left aneath the birken chair 
The spale frae a coffin-lid. 



Ballad of the TJiulian Nurse. 29 

She rase and she gaed butt the hoose, 

Aye steekin' door and door. 
Three hours gaed by or her mother heard 

Her fit upo' the flure. 

But whan the grey cock crew, she heard 

The sound o' shoonless feet ; 
When the red cock crew, she heard the door, 

And a sough o' wind and weet. 

And Janet cam' back wi' a wan face, 

But never a word said she ; 
No man ever heard her voice lood oot, 

It cam' like frae ower the sea. 

And no man ever heard her lauch, 

Nor yet say alas or wae ; 
But a smile aye glimmcrt on her wan face, 

Like the moonlicht on the sea. 

And ilka nicht 'tween the Saints and the Souls, 

Wide open she set the door ; 
And she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair, 

And that spale upo' the flure. 

And at midnicht she gaed butt the hoose. 

Aye steekin' door and door ; 
Whan the reid cock crew, she cam' benn the hoose. 

Aye wanner than afore — 

Wanner her face, and sweeter her smile; 

Till the seventh All Souls' eve. 
Her mother she heard the shoonless feet, 

Said, 'She 's comin', I believe.' 



30 Latter-Day Ballads. 

But she camna benn, and her mother lay ; 

For fear she cudna stan'. 
But up she rase and benn she gaed, 

Whan the gowden cock had crawn. 

And Janet sat upo" the chair, 

White as the day did daw ; 
Her smile was the sunlicht left on the sea, 

Whan the sun has sfone awa'. 



The Doncasier St. Leger, 31 



By Sir Francis Hastings Charles Doyle. 



THE DONCASTER ST. LEGER.^ 

The sun is bright, the sky is clear, 

Above the crowded course, 
As the mighty moment draweth near 

Whose issue shows the Jiorse. 

The fairest of the land are here 

To watch the struggle of the year ; 

The dew of beauty and of mirth 

Lies on the living flowers of earth, 

And blushing cheek and kindling eye 

Lend brightness to the sun on high ; 

And every corner of the north 

Has poured her hardy yeoman forth : 

The dweller by the glistening rills 

That sound among the Craven hills ; 

Th'e stalwart husbandman who holds 

His plough upon the eastern wolds ; 

The sallow shrivelled artisan, 

Twisted below the height of man, 

Whose limbs and life have mouldered down 

Within some foul and cloudy town, 



32 Latter-Day Ballads, 

Are gathered thickly on the lea, 

Or streaming from far homes to see 

If Yorkshire keeps her old renown; 

Or if the dreaded Derby horse 

Can sweep in triumph o'er her course. 

With the same look in every face, 

The same keen feeling, they retrace 

The legends of each ancient race : 

Recalling Reveller in his pride, 

Or Blacklock of the mighty stride, 

Or listening to some gray-haired sage 

Full of the dignity of age, — 

How Hambletonian beat of yore 

Such rivals as are seen no more ; 

How his old father loved to tell 

Of that long struggle — ended well — 

When, strong of heart, the Wentworth Bay 

From staggering Herod strode away; 

How Yorkshire racers, swift as they, 

Would leave this southern horse half-way ; 

But that the creatures of to-day 

Are cast in quite a different mould 

From what he recollects of old. 

Clear peals the bell ; at that known sound, 

Like bees, the people cluster round ; 

On either side upstarting then, 

One close dark wall of breathless men,. 

Far down as eye can stretch, is seen 

Along yon vivid strip of green. 

Where, keenly watched by countless eyes, 

'Mid hopes, and fears, and prophecies, 



The Doncaster St. Leger. 33 

Now fast, now slow, now here, now there, 
With hearts of fire and limbs of air. 
Snorting and prancing, —sidling by 
With arching neck and glancing eye, 
In every shape of strength and grace 
The horses gather for the race ; 
Soothed for a moment all, they stand 
Together, like a sculptured band ; 
Each quivering eyelid flutters thick. 
Each face is flushed, each heart beats quick ; 
And all around dim murmurs pass 
Like low winds moaning on the grass. 
Again, the thrilling signal sound ; 
And off at once, with one long bound, 
Into the speed of thought they leap. 
Like a proud ship rushing to the deep. 
A start ! a start ! they 're off, by Heaven ! 
Like a single horse, though twenty-seven, 
And mid the flash of silks we scan 
A Yorkshire Jacket in the van; 
Hurrah ! for the bold bay mare ! 

I '11 pawn my soul her place is there 

Unheaded to the last. 
For a thousand pounds, she wins unpast — 

Hurrah ! for the matchless mare ! 

A hundred yards have glided by, 

And they settle to the race ; 
More keen becomes each straining eye, 

More terrible the pace. 
3 



34 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Unbroken yet o'er the gravel road 

Like maddening waves the troop has flowed, 

But the speed begins to tell; 
And Yorkshire sees, with eye of fear, 
The Southron stealing from the rear. 

Ay ! mark his action well ! 
Behind he is, but what repose ! 
How steadily and clean he goes ! 
What latent speed his limbs disclose ! 
What power in every stride he shows ! 
They see, they feel ; from man to man 
The shivering thrill of terror ran, 
And every soul instinctive knew 
It lay between the mighty two. 
The world without, the sky above, 

Have glided from their straining eyes, — 
Future and past, and hate and love, 

The life that wanes, the friend that dies, 
E'en grim remorse, who sits behind 
Each thought and motion of the mind. 
These now are nothing. Time and Space 
Lie in the rushing of the race. 
As with keen shouts of hope and fear 
They watch it in its wild career. 
Still far ahead of the glittering throng 
Dashes the eager mare along. 
And round the turn, and past the hill, 
Slides up the Derby winner still. 
The twenty-live that lay between 
Are blotted from the stirring scene, 
And the wild cries which rant:; so loud. 



The Doiicastcr St. Lcgcr. 

Sink l)y (U\t:;rccs tlirouc;lio\i( (ho crowd, 

To one deep Iiuiuiiiint;', like (he Ireniidous roar 

Ol' seas reniole ah)ni;- a nor(hern shore. 

In dis(aiu;c> dwiiidlinf; (o the eye 

Kij;h( opi)osi(e (he stand they lie, 

And scarcely seem (o slir; 

Though an Arab schcich his wives wouhl c;ivc 

For a single steed, that with them could live 

Three hundred yards, without the spur. 

But though so indistinct and small 

You hardly see ihem move at all. 

There are not wanting signs which show 

l)efea( is busy as (hey go. 

Look how the mass, which ruslied away 

As full of spirit as the day, 

So close compacted for a while. 

Is lengthening in(o single {\\^. 

Now inch by inch it breaks, and wide 

And spreading gaps the line divide. 

As forward still, and far away 

Undulates on the tired array, 

Gay colors, momently less bright. 

Fade flickering on the gazers' sight, 

Till keenest eyes can scarcely trace 

The homeward rijijilc^ of (he race. 

Care sits on every lij) and brow : 

' Who leads ? who fails ? how goes it now 1 ' 

One shooting spark of life intense, 

One throb of refluent suspense. 

And a far rainbow-colored light 



36 Laitcr-Day Ballads. 

Trembles again upon the sight. 

Look to yon turn ! Already there 

Gleams the pink and black of the fiery mare, 

And through that which was but now a gap, 

Creeps on the terrible white cap. 

Half-strangled in each throat, a shout, 

Wrung from their fevered spirits out. 

Booms through the crowd like muffled drums, 

' His jockey moves on him. He comes ! ' 

Then momently, like gusts, you heard, 

' He \s sixth — he 's tifth — he 's fourth — he 's third ! 

And on, like some glancing meteor-flame, 

The stride of the Derby winner came. 

And during all that anxious time 
(Sneer as it suits you at my rhyme) 
The earnestness became sublime ; 
Common and trite as is the scene, 
At once so thrilling and so mean, 
To him who strives his heart to scan. 
And feels the brotherhood of man. 
That needs viusi be a mighty minute, 
When a crowd has but one soul within it. 
As some bright ship, with every sail 
Obedient to the urjrinir c^'^le, 
Darts by vext hulls, v^'hich side by side. 
Dismasted on the raging tide, 
Are struggling onward, wild and wide, 
Thus through the reeling field he flew. 
And near and yet more near he drew ; 
Each leap seems longer than the last, 



The l^oiicastcy St. Lcgcr. 37 

Now — now — the second horse is past, 

And the keen rider of the mare, 

Witii haggard looks of feverisli care, 

Hangs forward on the speechless air, 

By steady stillness nursing in 

The remnant of her spocd to win. 

One other bound one more — 't is done ; 

Right up to her the horse has run. 

And head to head, and stride for stride, 

Newmarkcfs hoi)c and Yorkshire's pride, 

Like horses harnessed side by side, 

Are struggling to the goal. 
Ride ! gallant son of Kbor, ride ! 
For the dear honor of the north 
Stretch every bursting sinew forth, 

Put out thy inmost soul, — 
And with knee, and thigh, and tightened rein 
Lift in the mare by might and main ; 
The feelings of the people reach, 
What lies beyond the springs of speech, 
So that there rises up no sound 
From the wide human life around ; 
One spirit Hashes from each eye. 
One impulse lifts each heart throat-high. 
One short and panting silence broods 
O'er the wildly-working multitudes, 
As on the struggling coursers press, 
So deep the eager silentness, 
That underneath their feet the turf 
Seems shaken, like the eddying surf 

When it tastes the rushing gale. 



38 Latter-Day Ballads. 

And the singing fall of the heavy whips, 
Which tear the flesh away in strips, 

As the tempest tears the sail, 
On the throbbing heart and quivering ear 
Strike vividly distinct and near. 
But mark what an arrowy rush is there, 
' He 's beat ! he 's beat ! ' — by Heaven, the mare ! 
Just on the post, her spirit rare. 
When Hope herself might well despair; 
When time had not a breath to spare ; 
With birdlike dash shoots clean away. 
And by half a length has gained the day. 
Then how to life that silence wakes ! 
Ten thousand hats thrown up on high 
Send darkness to the echoing sky, 
And like the crash of hill-pent lakes, 
Outbursting from their deepest fountains, 
Among the rent and reeling mountains. 
At once, from thirty thousand throats 

Rushes the Yorkshire roar. 
And the name of their northern winner floats 

A league from the course, and more. 



Winstanley. 39 

By Jean Ingelow 

WINSTANLEY.2 

THE APOLOGY. 

Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes^ 
' Water-grass^ you ktiow not what I do ; 

Know not of my storms^ nor of 7ny hushes^ 
Afid — I know not you. ^ 

Qtioth the reeds and rushes, ' Wind / oh, waken I 
Breathe, O wind^ and set our answer free ; 

For we have 710 voice, of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree! 

Quoth the earth at utidnight to the ocean, 

' Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
Naught you are to me but sounds of motion; 

I am naught to you! 

Quoth the ocean, ' Dawn ! O fairest, clearest. 
Touch me with thy golden fi^igers bland; 

For I have no smile till thou appearest 
For the lovely land."* 

Qtwth the hero dyiftg, whelmed in glory, 
' Many blame me, few have understood ; 

Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story, — 
Make its meaning good ' 



40 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Quoth the folk, ' SitiiT, poet .' teach us, pro7>e us; 

Surely we shall learn the uieanhio then ; 
Wound us with a pain dn'ine, oh, mo7'e us, 

For this man of men. ^ 

Winstani.f.y's deed, you kindly folk, 

With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, 

Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship ' Snowdrop ' tarried long. 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
' Belike,' he said, for the wind had dropped, 

* She lieth becalmed at sea.' 

The lovely ladies flocked within. 

And still would each one say. 
' Good mercer, be the ships come up .f*' 

But still he answered, ' Nay.' 

Then stepped two mariners down the street, 

With looks of grief and fear, 
' Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer ! 

' For the good ship " Snowdrop *' struck, — she struck 

On the rock — the Eddystone, 
And down she went with threescore men. 

We two being left alone. 

' Down in the deep, with freight and crew. 

Past any help she lies. 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thv merchandise.' 



Winstanhy. 41 

' For cloth o' gold and comely frieze,' 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
' For velvet coif, or costly coat, 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

' O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners, bold and true. 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

' Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within, 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared, 

And trading count but sin. 

' To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town, 
And see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown.' 

The ' Snowdrop ' sank at Lammas tide 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig ' Content ' 

Was also cast away. 

He little thouglit o' New Year's night, 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving-lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine. 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 



42 Latter-Day Ballads. 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock overhead, 

And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor lads, 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 

' Now, stranger, who be ye ? ' 
He looked to right, he looked to left, 

And ' Rest you merry,' quoth he ; 

' For you did not see the brig go down. 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddystone, 

* She drave at the rock with sternsails set ; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow. 

Then leaped at it again. 

' There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

' I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went, 

And sank like any stone. 



Wmstanley. 43 

' She was a fair ship, but all 's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock.' 
' I will take horse,' Winstanley said, 

' And see this deadly rock ; 

' For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy.' 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow. 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe, 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away. 

And shot up its stately head. 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

"T is the rock ! the rock ! ' he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 

' Good Master Mayor,' quoth he, 
' I am a mercer of London town. 

And owner of vessels three, — 

' But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main.' 
' You are one of many,' the old Mayor said, 

' That on the rock complain. 

' An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right. 
Well with my thoughts they chime. 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time.' 



44 Latter- Day Ballads. 

' Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free, 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny.' 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed als6 ; 

' Ah, youth,' quoth he, ' is rash ; 
Sooner, young man, thou 'It root it out 

From the sea that doth it lash. 

' Who sails too near its jagged teeth. 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

' And the heavier seas few look on nigh. 
But straight they lay him dead ; 

A seventy-gun-ship, sir, they '11 shoot 
Higher than her mast-head. 

' Oh, beacons sighted in the dark. 
They are right welcome things. 

And pitchpots tlaming on the shore 
Show fair as angel wings. 

' Hast gold in hand .'' then light the land. 

It 'longs to thee and me : 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea.' 

Yet said he, ' Nay, — I must away. 
On the rock to set my feet ; 

My debts are paid, my will I made. 
Or ever I did thee greet. 



Winstanley. 45 

' If I must die, then let me die 

By the rock, and not elsewhere ; 
If I may live, oh, let me live 

To mount my lighthouse stair.' 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 

And answered : ' Have thy way ; 
Thy heart is stout, as if round about 

It was braced with an iron stay : 

' Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, 

Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 
God with thee be, or I shall see 

Thy face and theirs no more.' 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 

And foam flew up the lea, 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and gear : 

He said, ' My time I waste,' 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited, and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he set his manly foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystone. 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 
And worked with power and might : 

Whatever the man reared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 



46 Latter- Day Ballads. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, 

He sailed to shore at tiow ; 
And at his side, by that same tide. 

Came bar and beam alsd. 

* Give in, give in,' the old Mayor cried, 

' Or thou wilt rue the day.' 
' Yonder he goes,' the townsfolk sighed, 

' But the rock will have its way. 

' For all his looks that are so stout, 
And his speeches brave and fair, 

He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 
But he '11 build no lighthouse there.' 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout. 
Through the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in : 
' To take his wage,' the workmen said, 

' We almost count a sin.' 

Now March was gone, came April in. 

And a sea-fog settled down. 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, — 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint, 

A ghostly craft and crew. 



Winstanlcy. 47 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 

For a long eight days and more ; 
'God help our men,' quoth the women then; 

' For they bide long from shore.' 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread: 

' Where may our mariners be ? ' 
But the brooding fog lay soft as down 

Over the quiet sea. 

A Scottish schooner made the port 

The thirteenth day at e'en. 
'As I am a man,' the captain cried, 

' A strange sight I have seen : 

' And a strange sound heard, my masters all, 

At sea, in the fog and the rain, 
Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, 

Then loud, then low again, 

' And a stately house one instant showed. 

Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
What manner of creatures may be those 

That build upon the sea ? ' 

Then sighed the folk, ' The Lord be praised ! ' 
And they flocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Hoe, that livelong night. 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanley's house at sea ! 



48 Latter-Day Ballads. 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went, 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore : 

Said he, ' My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 

' But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout, 
Another than I shall rear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

' A better than I shall rear it high, 

For now the way is plain ; 
And though I were dead,' Winstanley said, 

' The light would shine again. 

'Yet, were I fain still to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep. 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

' And if it stood, why, then 't were good, 

Amid their tremulous stirs. 
To count each stroke, when the mad waves broke, 

For cheers of mariners. 



Winstanley. 49 

' But if it fell, then this were well, 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

' Ay ! I were fain long to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep.' 

With that Winstanley went his way, 

And left the rock renowned. 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he would put to sea, 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds broke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves. 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, 

Broke on the trembling town, 
And men looked south to the harbor mouth. 

The lighthouse tower was down, — 
4 



50 Lattcr-Djy Ballads, 

Down in the deep where he doth sleep 

Wlio made it shine afar, 
And then in the night that drowneil its h«;ht 

Set, with his pilot star. 



Many fair tombs in the i^/orious i^/ooms 
At Westminster they show ; 

The brave and the or tat lie there in statt 
iriHStanley lieth low. 



The Mass for the Dead. 51 



/?)' S,rl>iilt- lull iiii^-CnUi/if. 



TllK 1\IASS I- OK Tin: T^1:AT).« 

A l.r.dKNI) OV MI-.SSINA. 

Am. (lay iinllai;L:,iiij:: in liis stall 

Sat llildobraiul the piiost, and heard 

C"ont"ossi(ins made, and over all 
lie uUorcil llu> ahsolvint; word. 

r.ut as (ho lioht of parish day 
I'asscd wilh the sctlini;- sun away, 
A heaviness and languor stole 
All unpereeived upon his soul. 

Full oft at the conluled sin 

The tender-hearted i)riest had wej)! ; 
Now wearied, as the dusk set in, 

He leaned him back and slept. 

Nor woke he to the vesper bell. 
Nor heard (he organ's soU-mn swell, 
And only (urned upon his seat 
At. tramp of the retreating feet. 



Lattir-Day Balhuh. 

Hoard not the vorgei's closing call. 
Nor chiminc" of the transept clock. 

Hoard not the iloors together fall. 
Nor noisy key turned in the lock. 

And as the night hours gliiletl bv. 

And Charles's Wain wheeled in the skv. 

Triest llildebrand slept heavilv. 

Now tirst a spark, and then a tiame, 
Like an uplighted beacon, came ; 
And next a streak of silver light 
That smote along the vaulted height. 
As above the eastern deep 
Slow the moon's white horn did peep. 

Sudden pealed the watchman's blast 

When the noon of night was past. 

And the echoes clung awhile 

To the ribbing of the aisle. 

Still did the slumb'ring pastor rest 

With gi ^.y head nodding on his breast. 

And thus the night hours glided by. 
As Charles's W\iin wheeled in the skv. 
And Hildebrand slept heavilv. 

The presses and misereres of oak 
Warped and snapped : each noisy stroke 
Of the minster clock, though clear. 
Unheeded fell upon the ear. 
A sea-breeze rose, and idly strayed 
Over the window glass, and played 



TJic I\fc7ss for tJw Di\xJ. 53 

Faint pipings wIumc it ft)un(l a icn(, 
Or sung about the battlement. 

A click — a rush of whirfing wheels, 
The haninuM" ol the old elot k leids. 
And strikes one stroke upon Ihi' gong, 
With long-drawn after undersong. 

Then, suddiMily, tlu> sK'ep-bands broke. 

And liildibrand the priest awoke, 

And conscious instantly, he gave 

One stride, and found him in the nave. 

Then started, with a sense of awe. 

As he the whole interior saw 

With light ilhimed, but wan and faint, 

Hy which eaeh shrine and seidptured saint, 

l-'.aeh marble shaft and fn-ttt'd niche. 

The moulded arch, the tracery rich, 

The bra/.en eagle in the choir. 

The bishop's throne with gilded spire, 

Stood out as clear as on a day 

When clouils obscure the solar ray. 

The altar tapers were alight. 

Chalice and jxiten glimmered bright. 

The service-book was opened wide, 

Wafers and cruets were at one side. 

And on liie rail, in meet ariaw 

.:\11), amice, stole, and \'estmi'nl lay. 

.And (UK- knelt on the altar stair 

As server, hushed, immersed in jirayer, 

In convent garb, and with feet bare. 



54 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Now with a shiinkini; and surprise, 
And scarcely crediting his eyes, 
The priest discerned the whitened bone 
(^f leet, where skin and flesh were none. 
With (iui\ eriui; knees, and throbbing blood. 
And chattering teeth, the roused man stood 
Whilst each vibration of the clock 
I>eat cm his pulse with liveliest shock. 

Up rose the monk and his bones ground 
As he arose — and turned him rounil. 
And spread abroad his wasted hands. 
As doth the celebrant who stands. 
And makes the dread ador^d sign. 
To close the mysteries divine. 

Sudden a voice the silence broke 
With words articulate, and spoke 

I'lom underneath the drooiMug cowl. 
As clear as ring ol" sanctus bell 
Hildebrand heard each syllable: 

' Who mass will otter t\)r my soul ?' 

'1 will!' cried Ilildebraml, anil stroile 
Towards the altar of his CkxI. 

And so that night it came to pass 
A priest intoned the holy mass, 
In that catheilral, for one dead. 
Whose soul unshriven sutTer^d ; 
And all the while he prayed, he felt 
That a dead man behind him knelt. 



The Mass for the Dead. 55 

lUit on the face he dared not look 
Of him who served the lioly book, 
The cruets, and the sacred bread, 
With serge cowl covering his head. 

Now, when his office was complete, 
He marked the monk upon his knees. 
Who muttered, as winds sound in trees, 
And, with dead hands, held fast his feet. 
Who said : 

' What years of bitter pain 
My soul in I\n-gatory hath lain. 
And panted for release in vain ! 
Beneath yon slab my body lies, 
No loving tingers closed my eyes. 
But, wrestling in death's agonies. 
Alone I breathed my parting sighs. 
Yonder was an unguarded well, 
Down which, by fatal chance, 1 fell ; 
And where I was no mortal knew, 
For no man thence the water drew ; 
And through the town the rumor spread 
That from my cloister 1 had lied. 
Thus for my soul no mass was said. 
Nor was my body buried. 
And, as the well was used no more. 
As time passed, it was covered o'er. 
But nightly for two hundred years 
Here have I cried aloud with tears. 
And none have heard my wail till now. 
Or answered to my prayer, but thou. 



56 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Priest Hildcbrand ! God's blessing light 
Upon thee for thy deed this night. 
I would repay, but power have none — 
Save this, that ere thy sands are run 
I will appear again.' 

And as he spake, a pallid ray, 
The harbinger of coming day, 

Smote through the eastern pane. 
Then first, enabled by God's grace. 
The priest looked on the dead man's face. 
That turned towards the Crucified 
As in a rapture, glorified. 
And with great reverence. Hildcbrand, 
Extending o'er the monk his hand. 
Traced upon the ashy brow 

And the uplifted head 
The sacred sign which angels know 
And devils fear. So, saying ' Peace ! ' 
The monk responded, ' With release,' 

And vanished. 



TJie Doorstep. 57 



By Ednmnd Clarence Stednian. 



THE DOORSTEP. 

The conference-meeting through at last, 
We boys around the vestry waited 

To see the girls come tripping past 
Like snow-birds willing to be mated. 

Not braver he that leaps the wall 

By level musket-flashes littcn, 
Than I, that stepped before them all 

Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

Ikit no, she blushed and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 

Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 

'T was nothing worth a song or story ; 

Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet. 

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet. 

Her face with youth and health was beaming. 



58 Latter-Day Ballads. 

The little hand outside her muff, — 

O sculptor, if you could but mould it ! — 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone, — 

'T was love and fear and triumph blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, w^ere almost home; 

Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, 
We heard the voices nearer come, 

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood, 

And with a 'Thank you, Ned,' dissembled. 

But yet 1 knew she understood 

With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead. 

The moon was slyly peeping through it. 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

' Come, now or never ! do it ! do it ! ' 

My lips till then had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister; 

But somehow, full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her! 

Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, 

listless woman, weary lover ! 

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 

1 'd give — but who can live youth over .-^ 



Jessie Cameron. 59 



By CJn-istina G corgi? la Rossetti. 

JESSIE CAMERON. 

'Jessie. Jessie Cameron, 

Hear me but this once,' qiiotii he. 
' Good hick go with you, neighbor's son, 

But I 'm no mate for you,' quoth she. 
Day was verging toward the night 

There beside the moaning sea ; 
Dimness overtook the light 

There where the breakers be. 
' O Jessie, Jessie Cameron, 

I have loved you long and true.' — 
' ("lOod luck go with you, neighbor's son, 

But I 'm no mate for you.' 

She was a careless, fearless girl, 

And made her answer plain ; 
Outspoken she to earl or churl, 

Kind-hearted in the main. 
But somewhat heedless with her tongue, 

And apt at causing" pain ; 
A mirthful maiden she, and young, 

Most fair for bliss or bane. 
' Oh, long ago I told you so, 

I tell you so to-day : 
Go you your way, and let me go 

Just my own free way.' 



6o Latter- Day Ballads. 

The sea swept in with moan and foam 

Quickening the stretch of sand : 
They stood almost in sight of home ■, 

He strove to take her hand. 
' Oh, can't you take your answer then, 

And won't you understand ? 
For me you 're not the man of men, 

I 've other plans are planned. 
You 're good for Madge, or good for Cis, 

Or good for Kate, may be : 
But what 's to me the good of this, 

While you 're not good for me ? ' 

They stood together on the beach. 

They two alone. 
And louder waxed his urgent speech. 

His patience almost gone : 
* Oh, say but one kind word to me, 

Jessie, Jessie Cameron.' — 
' I 'd be too proud to beg,' quoth she, 

And pride was in her tone. 
And pride was in her lifted head, . 

And in her angry eye, 
And in her foot, which might have fled, 

But would not fly. 

Some say that he had gypsy blood, 
That in his heart was guile : 

Yet he had gone through fire and flood 
Only to win her smile. 

Some say his grandam was a witch, 
A black witch from beyond the Nile, 



^I'ssir Cavicron. 6 1 

Who kept :iii iin;iL;i" in a niche 

And talked vviUi il ihc while. 
And by \\v\ hut tar down the hmc 

Some say they wonhl not i)ass at ni<;hl, 
Lest they should hear an linked strain 

Or see an unked si<;ht. 

Alas, for Jessie Cameron ! 

The sea crept moaninj^, moaninj^^ ni_t;her: 
She should have hastened to be gone, — 

The sea svve])t hiL;her, bri'akini^ by her: 
She should liavt' hastened to her home 

While yet the west was Unshed with tire, 
lUit now her feet arc in the foam, 

The sea-foam, sweej^in^j; hi<;her. 
() mother, lin,<;er at your door. 

And li,t;ht )()nr lamp to make il plain; 
I5ut jessit' she comes home no more, 

No more aL;ain. 

'I'hey stood together on the strand, 

They only, each by each ; 
llom(\ her home, was close at hand, 

I 'tterly out of reacli. 
Her mother in the chimney nook 

Heard a startled sea-gull screech, 
lUit never turned her head to look 

'lowards the daiUening beach: 
Neighbors here and neiglibors there 

Heard one scream, as if a bird 
Shrilly screaming cleft the air, — 

That was all they heard. 



62 Lattcr-Day Ballads. 

Jessie slic comes home no more, 

Comes home never ; 
Her Iovim's stej) sounds at his ilooi' 

No more forever. 
And boats may seareli uium the sea, 

And search along the river, 
lUit none know where the bodies be: 

Sea-winds that shiver, 
Sea-birds that breast the blast, 

vSea- waves swellin<x, 
Keep the secret fust and last 

Of their dwell ini;. 

\\'lu>ther the tide so hemmeil them round 

With its pitiless ilow, 
IMiat when they wouUl have «;one they iountl 

No way to «^o ; 
Whether she scorned hini to the last 

With words Ihiui; to and iVo, 
(^r cluui;" to him wIumi hojie was past, 

None will ever know : 
Whether he helped or hindered her. 

Threw up his life or lost it well. 
The troubled sea, for all its stir, 

Finils no voice to tell. 

Onlv wateheis bv the dying 

Have thought they heard one pray, 

Wordless, urgent ; and replying, 
One seem to say him nay : 

And watchers by the dead have heard 
A windy swell from miles away, 



ycssie Cameron. 63 

Witli sobs and screams, but not a word 

Distinct for them to say: 
And watchers out at sea have caught 

(ilimpse of a pale ijjleam here or there, 
Come and <j;one as quick as thou;:^ht, 

Which miuht be hand or hair. 



64 Latter- Day Ballads. 



By John Hay 



A WOMAN'S LOVE.» 

A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory 

Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory : 

* Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! 

' 1 loved, — and, blind with passionatt^ love, 1 fell. 
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell. 
For Ciod is just, and death for sin is well. 

' 1 do not rage against his high decree, 
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
l)Ut for my love on earth who mourns for me. 

' Cireat Spirit ! Let me see my love again 
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain 
'Xo pay a thousand years of tire and pain.' 

Then said the pitying angel, ' Nay, repent 
That wild vow ! Look, the dial finger 's bent 
Down to the last hour of thy punishment ! ' 

But still she wailed, ' I pray thee, let me go ! 
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 
Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe ! ' 



A Woman s Love. 65 

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 

And upward, joyous, like a rising star, * 

She rose and vanished in the ether far. 

iUit soon adown the dyiiij^ sunset sailing, 
And like a wounded bird iier pinions trailing, 
She fi uttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. 

She sobbed, ' I found him by the summer sea 

Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 

She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me ! ' 

.She wept, ' Now let my punishment begin ! 
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
To expiate my sorrow and my sin.' 

The angel answered, ' Nay, sad soul, go higher ! 
To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire 1' 



66 Latter-Day Ballads. 



By John Greenleaf Whittier. 



IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning ; 
Around it still the sumachs grow, 

And blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen. 
Deep scarred by raps official ; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial; 

The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 

Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

Went storming out to playing ! 

Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting ; 
Lit up its western window-panes. 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
And brown eyes full of grieving. 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving:. 



In School- Days. 6^ 

For near her stood the little boy 

Her childish favor singled ; 
His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 

To right and left, he lingered; 
As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 

The soft hand's light caressing, 
And heard the tremble of her voice, 

As if a fault confessing. 

' I 'm sorry that I spelt the word : 

I hate to go above you, 
Because,' — the brown eyes lower fell, — 

* Because, you see, I love you I ' 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 

That sweet child-face is showing. 
Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 

Have forty years been growing I 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school. 

How few who pass above him 
Lament their triumph and his loss, 

Like her, — because they love him. 



68 Latter- Day Ballads. 



By Francis Ttirner Palgrai'e. 

A STORY OF NAPLES. 

ANCIEN REGIME. 

Against the long quays of Naples 
The long waves heave and sink, 

And blaze in emerald showers, 
And melt in pearls on the brink. 

But as towards Pausilippo 

By Margellina we go, 
The crimson breath of the mountain 

Makes blood in the ripples below. 

A stone lies there in the pavement. 

With a square cut into the stone; 
And our feet will carelessly cross it, 

Like a thousand more, and pass on. 

But one clothed in widow's clothing 

Like a veiled Vestal stands, 
And from that slab in the pavement 

Warns with imperious hands. 

Smiling the sentinels watch us ; 

A smile and a sneer in one ; 
And that lordly woman bends her, 

And wipes the dust from the stone. 



A Story of Naples. 69 

' What secret is in that service 

Which she does like a thing divine ? 

Why guards she the stone from footsteps, 
Like a priestess guarding a shrine ? ' 

As a wild thing stabbed by the hunters 
She turned on us quickly and rose: 

* Oh, ye who pass and behold me, 

Why ask ye my grief of foes ? 

' It is enough to have borne them: 

It is enough to have lost : 
My sons ! My fair, fair children ! 

Silence beseemeth most. 

* Nor any woe like my woe 

Since the Just One was crucified, 

And his Mother stood and beheld him, 

And could not die when he died.' 

With that again she bowed her. 

And levelled her head with the stone ; 

And in the high noon silence 
We heard the mountain groan. 

As whom a magic circle 

Traced round holds prisoner, 
We stood and watched her kneeling. 

And could not speak or stir. 

Then from her feet unbended 

She slowly rose to her height. 
Through the worn robe appearing 

Like a queen in her own despite. 



/o • Latter-Day Ballads. 

She knotted her hands behind her 
In a knot of bloodless gray, 

As if so her lips unaided 
Alone her story should say. 

Like the keen thrilling music 
Blown from a tongue of flame, 

Through her lips that whispered story 
With a thin clear calmness came. 

' In this square of dust-choked socket 

A beam was set last year ; 
And the scaffold shot forth above it 

The gliding axe to rear. 

' With gaunt grim poles in order, 
As when men a palace build, — 

'Tis the house of King Death, this palace, 
With headsmen for courtiers tilled ! 

' I come at daybreak often. 

And call it up in my brain : 
I see the steel uplifted; 

I see it fall again. 

'Sirs, 'twas a morn like this morn, 
So white and lucid and still ; 

Only the scowl of thunder 
Sat on the face of the hill. 

' The steel like the star of morning 
Hung silver-glittering on high : 

It fell like the star of morning 
By God's hand struck from the sky. 



A Story of Naples. 71 

' It rose with a gleam of crimson, 

And sank again as it rose : 
And I stood here as one standing 

To watch the death of his foes. 

' And your eyes may well look wonder 
That mine looked on that thing of hell ! 

And unasked ye know already 
Who died when lead-like it fell. 

' Yes ! they were fair as the morning, 

Those two young sons of my youth ; 
Stamped with the stamp of Nature, — 

From boyhood soldiers of truth. 

' Soldiers of truth and of Italy ; 

Her blood was quick in their veins, 
As they writhed 'neath the lies that bound them, 

The canker-poisonous chains. 

' The coarse-lipped Austrian tyrant, 

Our serf-kings holding in pay, 
Keeps Italy weak and sundered, 

For the greater ease of his sway. 

' In the farce they name our country 

A boot toward Africa thrust : 
'T is a boot with an iron heel, then, 

To tread her own self in the dust. 

' The priest-king haunts in the centre 

The eternal ruin of Rorne ; 
The German tramples the Lombard ; 

And here — is the Bourbon home. 



^2 Latter-Day Ballads. 

' They saw these things, my fair ones ! 

The beauty, the curse, and the woe : 
The beauty that seems of heaven, 

The curse, pit-black from below. 

*0 Italy, mother of nations. 

Like her own fair sea-nymph's brood. 

Who turn and rend their mother, — 
Children by name, not blood ! 

' A dubious intricate quarrel 

Broke from the court of the North ; 

And on some mission of order 

From Trent the columns pushed forth. 

* They came down by Garigliano; 

At Teano their halt they called, 
When the pomegranates were as carbuncles. 
And the stream-pools as emerald. 

* A cry went up from our people, 

Volunteering by fifties to go ; 
And the king must come forth and lead them 
Against his ally the foe. 

' E'en in the palace recesses 

The gold-lace conscience was stirred ; 

But the calmer confessor wisdom 
In season whispered a word. 

* Sirs, from your land of freedom 

Ye cannot fathom our land ! 
They march out by Pausilippo, 
That flame-faced patriot band. 



A Sfoiy of Naples. 73 

' The second son of a second 

Cousin of the blood at their head ; 
— Our gay volunteers to conquest, 

Oh, they were right royally led ! 

' But what, think you, was the conquest 
To which they were marched along, 

And the deep rich oily Te Deum 
By the barytone cannon sung? 

* — Where the road turns under Teano, 

Half behind the pomegranate close, 
Red faced and stalwart-fashioned, 
Point-blank they came on their foes. 

' Who should hold back the lions 
When the prey to their hands is given ? 

Each poised his musket and shouted 
As if at the sight of Heaven. 

* And when that royal field-marshal 

With a Halt ! fell back to the rear. 
Who could rein in their onset, 
Or sever prudence from fear ? 

' Or care how the royal columns 

Ebbed slowly behind away. 
While the best young blood of the city 

Unaided rushed to the fray ? 

' Ah ! thrice blessed who fell forward 

Before the Tyrolean gun, 
And gasped out their life in crimson, 

Beneath the crimson sun ! 



74 Laitcr-Dcxy Ballads. 

' Oh that I must live to say it, 
And h've to say it in vain, — 

My sons ! my own two fair ones ! 
Better had ye been shiin. 

' I saw them go forth at morning; 

I saw them not at night : 
And yet they returned to the city 

As captives captured in fight. 

' Sirs, the gold hiced thing in the palace, 
With a bestial instinct dim, 

Knew that the soldiers of freedom 
Must be foes in heart to him. 

' I said, the ways of the Bourbon 
Ye could not understand. 
They were carted hither as rebels 
For a broken word of command. 

' They had gone onward as lions 

When Royalty muttered W'ithdra^v ! 

And their lives at once lay forfeit 
.Vt the lawless feet of the law. 

' In the black Castel del Movo 
They lodged them side by side ; 

And between them, — a Tyrolese soldier 
For order and peace to provide. 

' That square above is the window. 
Notched on the white wall stone;' 

We looked : and again in the silence 
We heard the mountain aroan. 



A Story of Naples. 75 

' Sirs, for this king my husband 

In youth laid his own life down ! 
And I prayed their lives might be spared me, 

Their palace pass to the crown. 

' How should I do but ask it ? 

- Yet better not to have asked, 

Had I seen 'neath a face of mercy 

Hell's particular malice masked. 

' Ye have heard how between two mothers 

King Solomon judged of old : 
Hut how between her two children 

Could a mother such judgment hold ? 

' (J)ne life, they said, was given me; 

And I was to choose the one : 
— The message came at even. 

And I sat till the night was done : 

' And I know not how they went by me, 

The long, long day and the night ; 
Only within my forehead 

Was a burning spot of light : 

' And a cry, My brother ! my brother / 

Why art thoit taken from me ? 
O choice unjust and cruel ! 

Would that I had died for thee ! 

' I could not answer the message ; 

I could not think or pray : 
Only I saw wMthin me 

That burning spot alway. 



^6 Latter-Day Ballads. 

' Poison and glare together, 

Like the wormwood star of Saint John, 
It sat within my temples, 

Throbbing and smouldering on. 

' Then once with odor and freshness, 
As of field in summer rain, 

The vision of their sweet childhood 
Was borne on my aching brain. 

' Bent over one book together 

I saw the fair heads of the twain ; 

As they read how in Roman battle 
Brother by brother was slain, 

' And their heads are closer together, 
Their hands clasp o'er and o'er, 

As they swear that death the divider 
Shall only unite them more. 

' — Toll ! toll ! and again ! 

A bell broke forth in the air : 
And I looked out on the morning ; 

And the morning was still and fair. 

* A black flag hung from the castle. 

Where the thin bare flagstaff stands. 
And I thought to go up to the castle 
With that bitter choice in my hands. 

* A timid crowd was pressing, 

And bore me along the street. 
And I saw the tall scaffold standing 
Upon these flags at our feet. 



A Story of Naples. 77 

' I saw the steel descending 

As a star runs down from the sky : 

— Why should I tell the story ? 
Ye know it as well as I ! 

' — The axe took both as I wavered 

Upon that choice accursed ! 
Now am I wholly childless — 

I know not which is worst. 

' My sons ! My fair, fair children ! 

I know not where they lie : 
Only I know that together 

They died, — and I could not die.' 

— A fork of flame from Vesuvius 
Through his black cone went on high ; 

And a cloud branched out like a pine-tree 
With thunders throned in the sky. 

The crimson breath of the mountain 

Made blood in the ripples below : 
But she stood gray as marble, 

In Niobean woe. 

And like a Roman matron 

O'er her face she folded the veil, 
With a more fixed composure 

Than we who heard her tale. 



78 Latter- Day Ballads. 



Jyy Francis lint I/arfr. 

DICKENS IN CAMP. 

Ar.ox'i". tlie piiu-s the moon was slowly tlrifling, 

The river saiii; below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roarini^ camii-fire, with rude humor, painted 

The ruddy lints of health 
0\\ ha<;<;ard face and form that drc^oped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 

A iioarded volume drew, 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 

'Vo hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. 

And as the twilight fell, 
Me read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of 'Little Nell.' 

I'erhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall ; 



Dickens in Camp, 79 

'Hie fir-trccs, o;atherin_e^ closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, 
While the whole camp, with ' Nell' on English meadows. 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — overtaken 

As by some spell divine - 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 

And he who wrought that spell ? - 
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 

Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hoji-vines' incense all the pensive glory 

That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where ICnglish oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths entwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — 

This spray of Western pine ! 



So Latter-Day Ballads. 



By George Walter Thorjihiiry. 

THE DEATH OF TH' OWD SQUIRE. 

'T WAS a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the bottom- 
less pit, 

The wind was howling away, like a Bedlamite in a fit. 

Tearing the ash-boughs off, and mowing the poplars down, 

In the meadows beyond the old flour-mill, where you turn 
off to the town. 

And the rain (well, it did x^Xxi) dashing the window-glass. 
And deluging on the roof, as the devil were come to pass ; 
The gutters were running in floods outside the stable door, 
And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as if they would 
never give o'er. 

Lor' I how the winders rattled ! You 'd almost ha' thought 

that thieves 
Were wrenching at the shutters, while a ceaseless pelt of 

leaves 
Flew at the door in gusts; and I could hear the beck 
Calling so loud, I knew at once it was up to a tall man's 

neck. 

We was huddling in the harness-room, by a little scrap of 

fire. 
And Tom, the coachman, he was there, a-practising for the 

choir ; 



The Death of th' Oivd Squire. 8i 

But it sounded desmal, anthem did, for Squire was dying 
fast, 

And the doctor 'd said, do what he would, * Squire's break- 
ing up at last.' 

The death-watch, sure enough, ticked loud just over th' 
owd man's head, 

Though he had never once been heard up there since mas- 
ter's boy lay dead ; 

And the only sound, beside Tom's toon, was the stirring 
in the stalls. 

And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in the owd 
walls. 

We could n't hear Death's foot pass by, but we knew that 

he was near; 
And the chill rain, and the wind and cold, made us all 

shake with fear; 
We listened to the clock upstairs, — 't was breathing soft 

and low. 
For the nurse said at the turn of night the old Squire's 

soul must go. 

Master had been a wildish man and led a roughish life ; 
Did n't he shoot the Bowton Squire, who dared write to 

his wife ? 
He beat the Rads at Hindon town, I heard, in Twenty-nine, 
When every pail in market-place was brimmed with red 

port wine. 

And as for hunting, bless your soul! why, for forty year 

or more 
He 'd kept the Marley hounds, man, as his fayther did afore; 



S2 Latter- Day Ballads. 

And now to die, and in his bed — the season just begun — 
It made him fret, the doctors said, as 't might do any one. 

And when the young sharp lawer came to see him sign his 

will, 
Squire made me blow my horn outside as we was going to 

kill; 
And we turned the hounds out in the court, — that seemed 

to do him good ; 
For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in Thornhill 

Wood. 

But then the fever it rose high, and he would go see the 

room 
Where Missus died ten years ago when Lammastide shall 

come : 
I mind the year, because our mare at Salisbury broke 

down; 
Moreover the town hall was burnt at Steeple Deiston 

town. 

It might be two, or half-past two, the wind seemed quite 

asleep ; 
Tom, he was off, but I awake sat, watch and ward to keep ; 
The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer 

fell, 
When all at once out clashed and clanged the rustv turret 

bell, 

That had n't been heard for twenty year, not since the 

Luddite days ; 
Tom he leapt up, and I leapt up, for all the house ablaze 



The Death of tJi Oivd Squire. 83 

Had sure not scared us half as much ; and out we ran like 

mad, — 
I, Tom, and Joe, the whipper-in, an t' little stable lad. 

'He's killed hisself,' that's the idea that came into my 

head; 
I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrowby was dead ; 
When all at once a door flew back, and he met us face to 

face ; 
His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the 

old race. 

The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying like a 

child ; 
The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he looked fierce 

and wild : 
' Saddle me Lightning Bess, my man,' that 's what he said 

to me ; 
' The moon is up, we 're sure to find at Stop or Etterby. 

' Get out the hounds ; I 'm well to-night, and young again 
and sound ; 

I '11 have a run once more before they put me under- 
ground : 

They brought my father home feet first, and it never shall 
be said 

That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quietly in his 
bed. 

'Brandy!' he cried; 'a tumbler-full, you women howling 

there ! ' 
Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his long gray 

hair, 



84 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip ; though he 

was old and weak, 
There was a devil in his eye that would not let me speak. 

We loosed the hounds to humor him, and sounded on the 

horn : 
The moon was up above the woods, just east of Haggard 

Bourne; 
I buckled Lightning's throat-lash fast ; the Squire was 

watching me ; 
He let the stirrups down himself, so quick, yet carefully. 

Then up he got and spurred the mare, and ere I well could 

mount, 
He drove the yard gate open, man, and called to old Dick 

Blount, 
Our huntsman, dead five years ago — for the fever rose 

again. 
And was spreading, like a flood of flame, fast up into his 

brain. 

Then off he ilew before the hounds, yelling to call us on, 
While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing 

he was gone ; 
We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox break out, 
And down the covert ride we heard the old Squire's part- 
ing shout. 

And in the moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly the rail 
Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half-way down the 
vale: 



The Death of th' Oivd Squire. 85 

I saw him breast fence after fence — nothing could turn 

him back ; 
And in the moonlight after him streamed out the brave old 

pack. 

'T was like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode free and 

fast; 
Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be 

past, 
For it was swollen with the rain ; but Lord ! 't was not 

to be; 
Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the broad 

breast of the sea. 

The hounds swept on, and well in front the mare had got 

her stride ; 
She broke across the fallow land that runs by the down 

side ; 
We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and as we stood us 

there, 
Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone dead from 

the mare. 

Then she swept on, and, in full cry, the hounds went out 

of sight ; 
A cloud came over the broad moon, and something dimmed 

our sight, 
As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking under 

breath, 
And that 's the way I saw th' ovvd Squire ride boldly to his 

death. 



S6 Latter-Day Ballads. 



liy Ilcury Austin Dob son. 



ma-ORK SIODAN. 

'riir (Ic.ul hand cl.ispctl a loiter.' 

S/'c-iiiil I 'ot)cspondence. 

IIi'.KK, in this loafy place, 

Quiet he lies, 
Cold, with his sightless (ace 

'riinied to the skies ; 
'T is hut another dead : 
All you can say is said. 

Cany his body hence, — 

Kings must have slaves ; 
Kinj;s climb to eminence 

Over men's graves : 
So this man's eye is dim, — 
'I'hrow the earth over him. 

What was the white you touched. 

There, at his side 'i 
Paper his hand had clutched 

'I'ight ere he died, - - 
Message or wish, may be ; 
Smooth the lolds out and see. 



Before Sedan. 87 

Hardly the worst of us 

Here could have smiled ! 
Only the tremulous 

Words of a child, — 
Prattle, that has for stops 
Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look. ' She is sad to miss. 

Morning and night, 
His — her dead father's — kiss ; 

Tries to be bright, 
(lood to mamma and sweet :' 
That is all. ' Marguerite.' 

Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain ! 
Ah, if the hearts that bled 

Slept with the slain ! 
If the grief died, — but no, — 
Death will not have it so. 



88 Latter-Day Ballads. 



By Robert Buchanan. 



THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT. 

'T WAS the body of Judas Iscariot 

Lay in the Field of Blood ; 
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Beside the body stood. 

Black was the earth by night, 

And black was the sky ; 
Black, black were the broken clouds, 

Though the red moon went by. 

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot 

Strangled and dead lay there ; 
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Looked on it in despair. 

The breath of the World came and went 

Like a sick man's in rest; 
Drop by drop on the World's eyes 

The dews fell cool and blest. 

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Did make a gentle moan, — 
* I will bury underneath the ground 

My flesh and blood and bone. 



The Ballad of yndas Iscariot. 89 

' I will bury deep beneath the soil, 

Lest mortals look thereon, 
And when the wolf and raven come 

The body will be gone ! 

'The stones of the field are sharp as steel, 

And hard and cold, God wot ; 
And I must bear my body hence 

Until I find a spot ! ' 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot, 

So grim and gaunt and gray, 
Raised the body of Judas Iscariot, 

And carried it away. 

And as he bare it from the field 

Its touch was cold as ice, 
And the ivory teeth within the jaw 

Rattled aloud, like dice. 

As the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Carried its load with pain. 
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye, 

Opened and shut again. 

Half he walked, and half he seemed 

Lifted on the cold wind ; 
He did not turn, for chilly hands 

Were pushing from behind. 

The first place that he came unto 

It was the open wold, 
And underneath were prickly whins, 

And a wind that blew so cold. 



90 Latter-Day Ballads. 

The next place that he came unto 

It was a stagnant pool, 
And when he threw the body in 

It floated light as wool. 

He drew the body on his back, 
And it was dripping chill, 

And the next place he came unto 
Was a Cross upon a hill : 

A Cross upon the windy hill, 
And a Cross on either side, 

Three skeletons that swing thereon. 
Who had been crucitied. 

And on the middle cross-bar sat 
A white dove slumbering ; 

Dim it sat in the dim light. 

With its head beneath its wing. 

And underneath the middle Cross 
A grave yawned wide and vast, 

But the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Shivered, and glided past. 

The fourth place that he came unto 
It was the Brig of Dread, 

And the great torrents rushing down 
Were deep and swift and red. 

He dared not fling the body in 

For fear of faces dim, 
And arms were waved in the wild water 

To thrust it back to him. 



The Ballad of yiidas Iscariot. 91 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Turned from the IJrig of Dread, 
And the dreadful foam of the wild water 

Had splashed the body red. 

For days and nights he wandered on 

Upon an open plain, 
And the days went by like blinding mist, 

And the nights like rushing rain. 

For days and nights he wandered on, 

All through the Wood of Woe; 
And the nights went by like moaning wind, 

And the days like drifting snow. 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Came with a weary face, — 
Alone, alone, and all alone, 

Alone in a lonely place. 

He wandered east, he wandered west, 

And heard no human sound ; 
For months and years, in grief and tears. 

He wandered round and round. 

For months and years, in grief and tears. 

He walked the silent night ; 
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Perceived a far-off light, — 

A far-off light across the waste, 

As dim as dim might be. 
That came and went, like the lighthouse gleam 

On a black ni<rht at sea. 



92 Latter-Day Ballads. 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Crawled to the distant gleam ; 
And the rain came down, and the rain was blown 

Against him with a scream. 

For days and nights he wandered on, 

Pushed on by hands behind; 
And the days went by like black, black rain, 

And the nights like rushing wind. 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot, 

Strange, and sad, and tall. 
Stood all alone at dead of night 

Before a lighted hall. 

And the wold was white with snow. 
And his foot-marks black and damp, 

And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose, 
Holding her yellow lamp. 

And the icicles were on the eaves, 
And the walls were deep with white. 

And the shadows of the guests within 
Passed on the window light. 

The shadows of the wedding guests 

Did strangely come and go. 
And the body of Judas Iscariot 

Lay stretched along the snow. 

The body of Judas Iscariot 

Lay stretched along the snow ; 
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Ran swiftly to and fro. 



The Ballad of yiidas Iscariot. 93 

To and fro and up and down, 

He ran so swiftly there, 
As round and round the frozen Pole 

Glideth the lean white bear. 

'T was the Bridegroom sat at the table-head, 
And the lights burnt bright and clear. 

' Oh, who is that,' the Bridegroom said, 
' Whose weary feet I hear ? ' 

'T was one looked from the lighted hall, 

And answered soft and slow : 
' It is a wolf runs up and down 

With a black track in the snow.' 

The Bridegroom in his robe of white 

Sat at the table-head. 
' Oh, who is that who moans without ? ' 

The blessM Bridegroom said. 

'T was one looked from the lighted hall, 

And answered fierce and low, 
' 'T is the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Gliding to and fro.' 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Did hush itself and stand. 
And saw the Bridegroom at the door 

With a light in his hand. 

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, 

And he was clad in white, 
And far within the Lord's Supper 

Was spread so broad and bright. 



94 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked. 
And his face was bright to see. 

' What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper 
With thy body's sins ? ' said he. 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Stood black and sad and bare : 

* I have wandered many nights and days ; 
There is no light elsewhere.' 

'T was the wedding guests cried out within, 
And their eyes were tierce and bright : 

' Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Away into the night I ' 

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, 
And he waved hands still and slow, 

And the third time that he waved his hands 
The air was thick with snow. 

And of every ilake of falling snow, 

Before it touched the ground, 
There came a dove, and a thousand doves 

Made sweet sound. 

'T was the body of Judas Iscariot 

Floated away full fleet, 
And the wings of the doves that bare it off 

Were like its winding-sheet. 

'T was the Bridegroom stood at the open door 
And beckoned, smiling sweet ; 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Stole in, and fell at his feet. 



The Ballad of Judas Iscariot. 95 

'The Holy Supper is spread within, 

And the many candles shine, 
And I have waited long for thee 

Before I poured the wine ! ' 

The supper wine is poured at last, 

The lights burn bright and fair; 
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet, 

And dries them with his hair. 



96 J.nffrr-Ihn' lUilliuis. 



WOODSTOCK MA/l-:. 

' ( >ll, U('V(M sli.ill .ni\' mu- liiid you then ! 
S.iid 111", lui'iiily piiu liiiii; Ihm clu-ck ; 
' \\\\\ why ;' ' sIu- .isktd. lit> only I.iu<;hi>il. — 

' Wliy sh.ill it l)c llnis, now spc.ik ! ' 
' Hoiauso so lik(* ;i bitd ;n t (lioii, 

rin)ii imist live within i;rtH'n trcos, 
With nii;htini;;iU\s and (hiushi's and wtons, 
And tho hunuuini; ol wihl l)i>t*s.' 

iVi, the shower nntf fh,- sunshine every day 
/\iss tint/ />ir\s, />e ye stu/, !>e ye i^dy. 

' Nay, nay, you jest ; no wren .\\\\ 1. 

Nor Ihiush noi nii;hl inhale, 
And i.ilhci woidd ki-rj) this arras and wall 

' Iwt-tMi nir and tlu> wind's assail. 
I like lo lu>ar litlli' Minnie's s»ay lau!;h. 

And llu* whistU' ol )a|)i"s thi' P^'.U''. 
(>i lo watch old l\!adi;r wlu-n Ium spindli' twills, 

And shr tiMuls it like a sai;i'.' 
(V/, the /enres, f>roivn, yei/oic, and red, still fall ^ 
I'\iU tuitl fall 02>er ehurehyard at hall. 

• \'oa, yea, but thon art thr w«>rld's host Rose. 

And ahinit tluH' tlowors 1 "II twine, 
And wall thee round with holly and heerh. 

Sweet htiar and iessainine.' 



Wood stork I\lti;u: 97 

' N.iy, 11. ly, .'.wcci in;i:.l«i, I 'iii ii<» l\o:,c, 

I'lil .1 woiiMii indeed, indeed, 
And love many lliin;^s bolh j-je.il .ind .'.ni.dl, 
And ol many lliin;;s more lake heed.' 

0/1, the sln)uu-r anii lite siinshinc rort y <{<ty 
I'iiss tint/ /'<i\\^ ht- )'(' .\tii/, hi' yr yiiy. 

' Aye, svveelliearl, .'.nie Ihoii :.aye.'.l ^.oolll, 

I Ihink llion ail even :.o ! 
I'.nl yel n( ed:, nni.l I dil.hle li.e |,e<l;;<', 

(lose j.eiiied a:. IiedjM- can joow. 
'Ilien Minnie and Jajx-s and Mad|;e ;,liall Ixr 

Thy nieiry males all day l<>ii|;, 
And llion shall heai my l.n;de < all 

1' Ol mat in 01 even sonj'.' 

Oh, llir liuriu's, hitiivn, yi'llow, iiiitl iiul, still ftill^ 
I'ti/l ti/itl /till t>/'t'/ ( /lit/ 1 liyiit il Of liti//. 

' Look yonder now, my hhie eyed hird, 
Sct'sl Ihon an;;!)! hy yon lar slii-ain t 
'I'hcre shall Ihon find a more < urions nest 

Than ever Ihon sawesi in dieani.' 
She lollovved hi;, Iiimmi, she looked in vain, 

.She saw neither (ollajM- nr)i hall, 
Ihil al iiis l>e( k ( aine a liller on wheels, 

Screened hy a led ulk (ani ; 
lie lilted her in hy her lily while hand, 
So left they Ihe blithe .sunny wall. 

0/1, l/ir s/it)'ivn iin(( t/ie suns/iinc roi-i y i/ny 
l\i\s and l>ii\s, Ix: ye siu/^ Itc yc yjiy. 
7 



98 Latter-Day Ballads. 

The gorse and ling are netted and strong, 

The conies leap everywhere, 
The wild briar-roses by runnels grow thick; 

Seems never a pathway there. 
Then come the dwarf oaks knotted and wrung, 

Breeding apples and mistletoe, 
And now tall elms from the wet mossed ground 

Straight up to the white clouds go. 

Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, 
Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. 

' O weary hedge, O thorny hedge ! ' 

Quoth she in her lonesome bower, 
' Round and round it is all the same ; 

Days, weeks, have all one hour ; 
I hear the cushat far overhead, 

From the dark heart of that plane ; 
Sudden rushes of wings I hear, 

And silence as sudden again. 

Oh, the shower and the sunshme every day 
Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. 

' Maiden Minnie she mopes by the fire. 

Even now in the warmth of June ; 
I like not Madge to look in my face. 

Japes now hath never a tune. 
But oh, he is so kingly strong. 

And oh, he is kind and true ; 
Shall not my babe, if God cares for me. 

Be his pride and his joy too .'* 

Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, 
Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. 



Woodstock Maze. 99 

' I lean my faint heart against this tree 

Whereon he hath carved my name, 
I hold me up by this fair bent bough, 

For he held once by the same ; 
But everything here is dank and cold, 

The daisies have sickly eyes, 
The clouds like ghosts down into my prison 

Look from the barred-out skies. 

Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day 
Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. 

' I tune my lute and I straight forget 

What I minded to play, woe 's me ! 
Till it feebly moans to the sharp short gusts 

Aye rushing from tree to tree. 
Often that single redbreast comes 

To the sill where my Jesu stands ; 
I speak to him as to a child ; he flies, 

Afraid of these poor thin hands ! 

Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, 
Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. 

' The golden evening burns right through 

My dark chamber windows twain : 
I listen, all round me is only a grave, 

Yet listen I ever again. 
Will he come ? I pluck the flower-leaves off, 

And at each, cry, yes, no, yes ! • 
I blow the down from the dry hawkweed, 

Once, twice, ah ! it flyeth amiss ! 

Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day 
Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. 



oo latter Pay Jul I Luis. 

' 1 1, Ilk ! lie comics! yet liis footstep sounds 

As it souiuk'd never before! 
I'l-rhaps he thinks to steal on me, 

lint I Ml hide behind the door.' 
Slie i.m, she stopped, stood still as stone — 

It w.is (Jni'cn I'.icanorc ; 
And at oneo she fell that it was death 

The hun|;orin;^ sho-wolf bore ! 
Oh, the It'll vex, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, 
J-'iill and /(ill over chunhyard or hall. 



Ifajarlis. 



lOl 



liy /\i,/i,ir,! f/fninsf llonti'. 



TTAJARTXS. 



A ll(A(;l( IIAI.I.AI), Ml" lO AN ()l,l> AKAI'.IAN AlU. 



I i.ovi'.i) II;ijailis, and was loved, 
Hotli ( liildicii ol Ihr Dcscrl, w<- ; 

And deep as wcic 1m r liislious eyes, 
My inia;;c ever could 1 sec. 

And in my heart sIk; also shone, 

As doth a slar above a well ; 
And we ea( h other's thoughts enjoyc'd, 

As camels listen lo a hell. 

A Sheik iinio llajailis came. 

And said, 'Thy Ix-anly (iics my (hcanis ! 
Youn^ Oinal) spurn, (ly to my lent ; 

Soshalt thou walk in ^a)lden beams.' 

r>ul Irom the Sheik my maiden tinned, 
And he was wroth with her and me : 

Ilajarlis down a pit was low(;red, 
And I was lastened to a tree. 

Nor bread, nor water, had six- tluMe ; 

i'.iil oil a slave woidd come and ^o ; 
O'er the pit bent he, muttering words. 

And aye look back the unvaryin;; ' No!' 



102 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The simoom came with sullen glare ; — 

Breathed desert mysteries through my tree ! 

I only heard the starving sighs 
From that pit's mouth unceasingly. 

Day after day, night after night, 
Hajarlis' famished moans I hear ! 

And then I prayed her to consent, 
For jny sake, in my wild despair. 

Calm strode the Sheik, looked down the pit, 
And said, ' Thy beauty now is gone ; 

Thy last moans will thy lover hear. 

While thy slow torments feed my scorn.' 

They spared me that I still might know 
Her thirst and frenzy, till at last 

The pit was silent; and I felt 

Her life, and mine, were with the past! 

A friend that night cut through my bonds : 
The Sheik amidst his camels slept; 

We fired his tent, and drove them in. 

And then with joy I screamed and wept ; 

And cried, ' A spirit comes arrayed. 
From that dark pit, in golden beams ! 

Thy slaves are fled, thy camels mad ; 
Hajarlis once more fires thy dreams ! ' 

The camels blindly trod him down. 

While still we drove them o'er his bed ; 

Then with a stone I beat his breast^ 
As I would smite him ten times dead ! 



Hajarlis. i o ■ 

I dragged him far out on the sands ; 

And vultures came, a screaming shoal ! 
And while they fanged and flapped, I prayed 

Great Allah to destroy his soul ! 

And day and night again I sat 

Above that pit, and thought I heard 
Hajarlis' moans ; and cried, ' My love f ' 

With heart still breaking at each word. 

Is it the night-breeze in my ear 

That wooes me like a fanning dove ? 

Is it herself ? — O desert-sands, 
Enshroud me ever with thy love ! 



104 Latter-Day Ballads. 



By Rcybert Brorvninj^ 



HERVE KIEL. 

On the sea and at the Iloi^ue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 

Did tlie ICnglish fight the French, — woe to France! 
And, the thirty-first of May, heUer-skelter through the bhie, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 

'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full 
chase, 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small. 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signalled to the i)lace, 
' Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick, — or, 

quicker still. 
Here 's the English can and will ! ' 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on 
board. 
' Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to 
pass ? ' laughed they ; 



Herv^ RieL 105 

' Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred 

and scored, 
Shall the "Formidable" here with her twelve and eighty 
guns. 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow 
way, 
Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at full beside ? 
Now 't is slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! ' 

Then was called a council straight ; 

Brief and bitter the debate : 

' Here 's the English at our heels ; would you have them 

take in tow 
All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and 
bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run the ships aground ! ' 
(Ended Damfreville his speech,) 
' Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the 
beach ! 
France must undergo her fate.' 

' Give the word ! ' But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all 
these. 



io6 Latter-Day Ballads. 

A captain ? A lieutenant? A mate, — first, second, third ? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for 
the fleet, — 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve^ Riel the Croisickese. 

And, ' What mockery or malice have we here ? ' cries 

Herve Riel : 
' Are you mad, you Malouins ? Are you cowards, fools, or 

rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, 

tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 
'Twixt the offing here and Gr^ve, where the river dis- 
embogues ? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's 
for? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay. 
Entered free and anchored fast at the fort of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That were worse than 
fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe me, 
there 's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this *' Formidable " clear, 
Make the others follow mine. 

And I lead them most and least by a passage I know 
well, 



Hervi Kiel 107 

Right to Solidor, past Gr^ve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, — 

Keel so much as grate the ground, — 
Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head!' cries 
Hervd Kiel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

' Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! ' cried 
its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's 
profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock. 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last ; 

And just as Hervd Kiel halloos ' Anchor !' — sure as fate, 
Up the English come, too late. 

So the storm subsides to calm ; 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve : 



I08 Latter-Day Balhuh. 

Hearts that bled arc stanched with bahii. 
'Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the Kn<;hsh rake the bay, 
(Inash tlieir teeth and <;lare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee ! ' 
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance ! 
Outburst all with one accord, 

'This is Paradise for Ilell ! 

Let France, let France's King 

Thank the man that did the thing ! ' 
What a shout, and all one word, 

' Hervd Kiel ! ' 
As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 

In the frank blue Ureton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 

Then said Damfreville, 'JMy friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I tind the speaking hard. 
l*raise is deeper tlian the lips ; 
Vou have saved the King his ships, 

Von must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand what e'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart's content, and have ! or my name 's not 
Damfreville.' 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 

On the beardeil mouth that spoke, 



Hervi^ Rid. 109 

As the homst licarl l:iii_<;hc(l through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
* Since I needs must say my say, 
Since on board the duty 's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a 
run ? 
Since 't is ask and have I may, — 

Since the others j;o ashore, — 
Come ! a good wliole holiday ! 

Leave to <j;o and see my wife, whom I call the lielle 
Aurore ! ' 

Tluit he asked and that he ;;t)t, - nothing more. 

Name and deed alike are lost ; 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack • 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 

All that France saved from the light whence ICngland 
bore the bell. 
Go to Paris : rank on rank 

Search the heroes (lung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and (lank ; 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Ilervd 
Kiel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Hervd Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Hervd Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Iklle 
Aurore. 



1 lO 



l.atti'r-Day lui/huh. 



/m' r.rfiilv P/'ifrr. 



VWV. (U'LK. 



Till", only soil ol the- t'ouiU Lasscno 
1,()\ih1 ;i inaidrn o{ low (li'«;ioi> ; 

lliM' {vc[ oil [\\c luoimt.iin w.iiuliMcd b.uo, 
A winj; ilipt tML;K' w.is lu'. 

\\c fed him lull upon (load uumi's minds, 
Drainod loarnins; to the loos; 

Sho Uncw the voices o{ iho winds, 
Tlu' siHTot ol' the l)0«. s. 

Owe d.iv, as haitiu'; on (ho hill, 
I lis haul drawn hioafh lu> took. 

Sho mot him with a wild-bird trill, 
Ptnvn liMpinj;" with the brook. 

Tho bi'ook oamo siiiL^ini; iVom its souico. 

Tho maidon stoppod hall-way ; 
Tho brook wont laui;hino on its oourso ; 

It wiMi tho raoo that ilay ! 

The brook wont sini^ini; to tho valo. 

Tho maidon lini;iMod (horo. 
Anil listonod to a woiulrous talo, — 

Tho \o\c ol Raoul I.assiMio. 



11 I i' Cilllf. I I T 

A Ciisllc set on ;i tocky ii(li;c 

IIoK" (lie arms ol the Coiiiits Liisscric ; 

A lull oil ;i rilled iiioniilain Icdj^c 
Was llif lioim- oi I' ricda llic lair. 

'I'hc valley lliat yawned helvveen tlie two 

In llie morning mist showed white; 
At noon (he valley was heavenly blue, 

Hut was black as doom at nii;hl. 

And Ihe river thai tolled in ils sloiniy bed 

Mnnnured so lar below, 
\'on never could tell what the river said, 

II it sun;; ol weal or ol woe : 

'l'hout;h when ;;lacier drills had swelled ils Mood 

1 1 rose as if in warning ; 
Slill a icde will ser\'e, as (its Ihe mood, 

I'Or counsel or foi" scoinin;;. 

So at morn, at noon, and eventide, 

In sunshini" or in misi. 
The twain that ( hasm did divide 

Still kei)l their laithlul tryst: 

lie on (he rex k wi(h castled crown, 

I li^h ovei the world uplill ; 
She on the mound whii h sec-ined to frown 

Dark on Ihe deadly rift. 

There, face to face, when the day was cleai-, 

Tlu>y stood and spake no word ; 
Hut through mist or nunk each lov«'r woidd hear. 

As the note of a wild wood bird. 



I I 2 Latttr-Day BaJhuis. 

There sometimes standing: faee to face. 

Their souls met on tiie wing: 
Oh, then the valley, all ehoked with ha/e, 

Would seem but a lyini;- thing! 

And Raoul Lasserre woulil have followed his soul. 

And followed to body's ileath. 
If the far-off river had eeaseil to roll 

Its warning from beneath. 

Vet again when the lir-tops pierced the blue 

At noon on the mountain's side, 
By the sinking of his heart he knew 

That the gull was tleep ami wiile; 

And oft as he heard the wilil bird's trill 

Across the cleft at night. 
He curst the chasm that balked the will 

Of a man in hue's despite. 

To come ctf a race so proud, and eke 

I'nbroken to sutYer wrong. 
Vet be forced to bow. ii; a body weak. 

To the mandate of the strong; 

To be iHMti and reared in an eagle's nest, 

W'itlunit an eagle's wing 
'I"o bear vou aloft i>n an eagle's quest. 

Is a weary and iloleful thing. 

So faint and fainter grew Raoul T-asserrc, 

And his eye took an angrier light 
As he wound his way down his turret-stair 

At morn and noon and night. 



'riic Ciulf. 1 1 3 

l'"()ul sIkiuk' when a hodit'c that closely prcst 

As the hark ol the saphn^ beech, 
Lies withei iiio- omt a faithlul breast. 

Like the coal ol" a bh^^hted peach ! 

Oh, l-rietki, maiden bravi- and i)uie, 

Take het'd to where you <;() ! 
\'our loot on the mountain slope is sure ; 

It soils not the vir<j;in snow ; 

l)e it yours the j;"olden dawn to <;reet 

With a stej) as free as air ; 
Hut you never may sit in my lady's seat, 

Or climb uj) llu' castle stair ! 

Youn^ Raoid Lasserre was as tj^ood as dead, 

So sick and sore was he, 
And for summer lon;^ days had tost on a bed, 

As a bark on the raj^in;; sea. 

Hut he rose when the breath of the <;lacier came 

And ([uickened him, spirit and flesh : 
'Lhe glacier he called by the maiden's name. 

Whose soul was as pure and fresh. 

The grapes were clusterinj; on the wall, 

The apples burning red ; 
The suntfower looked above them all, 

The sun was overhead. 

And Kaoul crept to the tryst ing-place, — 

That autumn day was clear ! 
He could see the heart's blood flush the face 

That seemed, O God, how near ! 

H 



114 Latter-Day Ballads. 

He saw, and his heart went forth to her, — 
His heart that was bold and true. 

Though the river thundered its hoarse demur, 
It leapt the chasm so blue. 

And she, — she opened the strong white arms 
That had locked him safe in bliss, 

And met him, she and her peasant charms, — 
They were good enough for this ! 

She opened her loving arms to save 

Her lover on the edge ; 
He rose to her from the sobbing wave, 

As she sprung from her mountain ledge. 

Now together, borne on the rushing tide, 

Their bodies to the sea 
Drift on and on ; for the sea is wide, 

And recks not of degree. 



Lady Alice. \ \ 

By William Allingham. 

LADY ALICE. 



Now what doth Lady Alice so late on the turret stair, 
Without a lamp to light her, but the diamond in her hair; 
When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom, 
And dreams float through the castle into every silent room ? 

She trembles at her footsteps, although they fall so light; 
Through the turret loopholes she sees the wild midnight ; 
Broken vapors streaming across the stormy sky; 
Down the empty corridors the blast doth moan and cry. 

She steals along a gallery ; she pauses by a door ; 

And fast her tears are dropping down upon the oaken 

floor; 
And thrice she seems returning, but thrice she turns 

again, — 
How heavy lies the cloud of sleep on that old father's 

brain ! 

Oh, well it were that never shouldst thou waken from thy 

sleep ! 
For wherefore should they waken, who waken but to weep ? 
No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace a vigil keep, 
Hut Woe, — a lion that awaits thy rousing for its leap. 



Il6 Latter-Day Ballads. 



II. 

An afternoon of April, no sun appears on high, 
But a moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky : 
And through the castle-gateway, left empty and forlorn, 
Along the leariess avenue an honored bier is borne. 

They stop. The long line closes up like some gigantic 

worm ; 
A shape is standing in the path, a wan and ghost-like form, 
Which gazes fixedly, nor moves, nor utters any sound; 
Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks down upon the 

ground. 

And thouoh her clothes are ragged, and though her feet 

are bare, 
And though all wild and tangled falls her heavy silk-brown 

hair ; 
Though from her eyes the brightness, from her checks the 

bloom is fled, 
They know their Lady Alice, the darling of the dead. 

With silence, in her own old room the fainting form they 

lay, 
Where all things stand unaltered since the night she fled 

away : 
But who, but who shall bring to life her father from the 

clay? 
But who shall give her back again her heart of a former 

day .'' 



The Pearl of the Philippines. i 1 7 



By Riihiird /fc/ny Stoddard. 



'IHK PKARL OF THE PIllLIPI^INi:.S.'' 

' 1 iii'-AK, Kclempago, that you 

Were once a famous fisheniian, 

Who at Ncgros, or Palawan, 

Or maybe it was at Zebou, 

Found something i)recious in the sand, 

A nugget washed there by the rain. 

That slipped from your too eager hand, 

And soon as found was lost again. 

If it had been a ])earl instead 

(Why does your good wife shake her head?) 

1 could the story understand ; 

For I have known so many lost, 

And once too often to my cost. 

I trade in pearls ; I buy and sell. 

They say 1 know their value well. 

* I have seen some large ones in my day, 

Have heard of larger, — who shall say 

How large these unseen pearls have been 1 

I don't believe in things unseen. 

I hear there 's one now at Zc'bou 

That dwarfs a bird's egg, and outshines 



Il8 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The full moon in its purity. 

What say you ? is the story true ? 

And what 's the pearl called? Let me see 

'riu- pearl of all the rhilippines.' 

'Twas at Manilla, and the three 

Sat in a shaded gallery 

That looked upon the river, where 

All sorts of sailing boats all day 

Went skimming round, like gulls at play, 

And made a busy picture there. 

The speaker was — what no man knew, 

Except a merchant ; Jew with Jew, 

A Turk with Turks. Tarsee, Hindoo, 

But still lo one religion true. 

And that was 'I'lade ; a pleasant guest, 

Who knowing many things knew best 

What governs men, for he was one 

Whom many trusti'd, trusting none. 

His host, Kelempago, who heard 

His (piestions with an inward shock, 

Looked uj), but answeied not a word. 

He was a native Tagaloc, 

A man that was iu)t i)ast his prime, 

And yet was old before his time. 

His face was sad, his hair was grey, 

His eyes on something far away. 

His wife was younger, and less sad ; 

A Spanish woman, she was clad 

As are the Tagal women ; fair. 

With all her dark abundant hair, 



The rcarl of tlir r//i/i/>/>ifics. \ 19 

That was a woiuh;!" to behold, 

Drawn Ironi lu-r fact! willi pin.-, ol ^old. 

' You liavc iiol seen il, I perceive,' 

Said tlu; pearl hick haul, 'nor have I. 

I W have lo see it lo believe, 

And then would rather have you by. 

'riieic 's uo su( Il pearl.' ' You spoke ol nie ! ' 

Alter a pause his host be;;an : 

' Yes ! I was ouce a lisherni.in, 

And loved, thou/j;h now I hate, the sea. 

"r was twenty, thirty years aj^^o, 

And this ^ood la<ly by my side 

Had not been many moons a bride 

Ol poor bul proud Kdempaj^o. 

Thai I was pooi- she did not care ; 

She let me love her, loved a^aiii. 

She comes of the best blood of Sj)ain ; 

'rher(.' is no Ixtter anywhere. 

You see wli.il I am. As I said, 

I ( ast my br( ;id u|)on the sea, 

<)r Irom the sea I <lrew my bread. 

What mailer, so it came to m(,' ? 

We loved, wer(; yonn;.;, our wants were few: 

'I'he happiest pair in all /ebon ! 

At last a ( hild, and what before 

Seemed li;ippiness was more and more 

The thin;' il seemed, the dr( ;im come; true. 

You sriiile : I see you ni-ver knew 

A father's pleasure in a child.' 

' J'ardon, my friend I I never smiled ; 



120 Latter- Day Ballads. 

I am a talluM-. 1 luuc throo 

Sweet Irouhlos that are dear lo ine.' — 

* But ours was not a trouble, —no!' 
Said simple, j^ood Relenipago. 

* It was the sweetest, dearest cliild ! 
So beautiful, so gay, so wild. 

And yet so sensitive and sliy, 

And i;iveii to sudden, strange alarms : 

1 've seen it in its mother's arms, 

BubblinjLi: with laui;hter, stop and si<;h. 

It was like neither in the face, 

I'\)r we are dark, and that was faii'; 

An infant of another race, 

That, born not in their dwellini;-pUice, 

Left some poor woman childless there I 

A bird that to our nest had tlown, 

A pearl that in our shell had grown, 

Wc cherished it with double care. 

It came to us as, legend says 

(I know not if the tale be true), 

Another child in other days 

Came hither to depart no more, 

I'\>nnd one bright morning on the shore. 

The Infant Jesus of Z^bou.' — 

* So you too had,' the merchant said. 
With just a touch of quiet scorn, — 
'What shall I say? — a Krishna born, 
lUit with no halo round its head. 

What dill you name the boy?' — ' A girl. 
Not boy, and therefore dearer, sweeter : 
Wc called the infant Margarita, 



The Pearl of the Philippines. 1 2 1 

For was she not our precious Pearl ? 

You who have children, as you say, 

Can guess how much we loved the child, 

Watching her growth from day to day, 

(irave if she wept, but if she smiled 

Delighted with her. We were told 

That we grew young as she grew old. 

1 used to make long voyages, 

IJefore she came, in distant seas ; 

But now I never left Z5bou, 

For there the great pearl oysters grew 

(And still may grow, for aught I know — 

1 speak of thirty years ago). 

Though waves were rough and winds were high, 

And fathoms down the sea was dark, 

And there was danger from the shark, 

I shrank from nothing then, for I 

Was young and bold and full of life. 

And had at home a loving wife, 

A darling child, who ran to me, 

Stretching her arms out when I came. 

And kissed my cheek, and lisped my name, 

And sat for hours upon my knee. 

What happier sight was there to see ? 

What happier life was there to be ? 

1 lived, my little Pearl ! in thee. 

Oh, mother! why did I begin?' 

He stopped, and closed his eyes with pain. 

Either to keep his tears therein. 

Or bring that vision back again. 

' You tell him ! ' 



22 Lattcr-Day Ballads. 

' Sir ! ' the huly said, 
' I\ly husband bids me tell the tale. 
One day the child beL:;an to ail ; 
Its little cheek was iirst too red, 
And then it was too deathly pale. 
It burned with fever; inward tlame 
Consumed it, which no wind could cool; 
We bathed it in a mountain pool, 
And it was burnin<; <dl the same. 
The next day il was cold, so colli 
No tire could warm it. So it lay, 
Not crying much, too weak to play, 
And looking; all the while so old. 
So lond too of its father, — he, 
Ciood man. was more to it than I ; 
The moment his light step drew nigh. 
It would no longer stay with me. 
I said to him, "The child will die ! " 
But he declared it should not be.' 
* 'T is true ! ' Relemiiago replied : 
' I felt, if Margarita died, 
My heart was l^roken. And I said, 
"She shall not die till I have tried 
Once more to save her ! " What to do .? 
Then something put into my head 
The Infant Jesus of Z6bou. 
♦' 1 '11 go to him : the Child Divine 
Will save this only child of mine. 
I will present him with a pearl, 
And he will spare my little girl, — 
The largest pearl that I can find, 



The Pearl of the Philippines. 123 

The one that shall dcliglit his mind. 
The purest, best, I give to you, 

Infant Jesus of Z6bou ! " 

'T was morning when I made tlie vow, 
And well do I rememljer now 
How light my heart was when I ran 
Down to the sea, a happy man ! 
All that I passed along the way. 
The woods around me, and above 
The plaintive cooing of the dove, 
The rustling of the hidden snake. 
And wild ducks swimming in the lake, 
The hideous lizards large as men, — 
Nothing, 1 think, escai)ed me then. 
And nothing will escape to-day. 

1 reached the shore, untied my boat, 
Sprang in, and was again afloat 
Upon the wild and angry sea. 
That must give up its pearls to me, 
Its pearl of pearls ! liut where to go ? 
West of the island of liojo. 

Some six miles off, there was a view 

Of the cathedral of- Z6bou, 

lieneath whose dome the Child Divine 

Was waiting for that pearl of mine. 

Thither I went, and anchored ; there 

Dived fathoms down, found rocks and sands, 

But no pearl-oysters anywhere. 

And so came up with empty hands. 

Twice, thrice, and— nothing ! " Cruel sea ! 

Where hast thou hid thy pearls from me ? 



124 Latter- Day Ballads. 

But I will have them, nor depart 

Until I have them, for my heart 

Would break, and my dear child would die. 

She shall not die ! What was that cry? 

Only the eagle's scream on high. 

Fear not, Relempago ! " Once more 

Down, down, along the rocks and sands 

I groped in darkness, tore my hands. 

And rose with nothing, as before. 

" O Infant Jesus of Zebou ! 

I promised a great pearl to you: 

Help me to find it ! " Down again ! 

It seemed forever, whirled and whirled, 

The deep foundations of the world 

Engulfed me and my mortal pain ; 

But not forever, for the sea 

That swallowed would not harbor me. 

I rose again, I saw the sun, 

I felt my dreadful task was done. 

My desperate hands had wrenched away 

A great pearl-oyster from its bed 

And brought it to the light of day ; 

Its ragged shell was dripping red, — 

They bled so then. But all was well, 

For in the hollow of that shell 

The pearl, pear-shaped and perfect, lay. 

My child was saved ! No need to tell 

How I rejoiced, and how I flew 

To the cathedral of Zebou, 

For there the Infant Jesus stands. 

And holds my pearl upon his hands.' 



The Pearl of the Philippines. i: 

He ended. The pearl-merchant said, — 

' You found your daughter better ? ' — ' No ! ' 

The wife of poor Relempago 

Replied. * He found his daughter dead.' — 

' 'T was fate ! ' he answered. — ' No ! ' said she, 

' 'T was God ! He gave the child to me ; 

He took the child : and He knew best. 

He reached and took it from my breast ; 

And in His hand to-day it shines, 

The Pearl of all the Philippines.' 



126 Latter-Day Ballads. 

By John Payne. 

THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 



The day is dead, the night draws on, 

The shadows gather fast : 
'T is many an hour yet to the dawn, 

Till Hallow-tide be past. 

Till Hallow-tide be past and sped, 

The night is full of fear ; 
For then they say the restless dead 

Unto the live draw near. 

Between the Saints' day and the Souls' 
The dead wake in the mould ; 

The poor dead, in their grassy knolls 
They lie and are a-cold. 

They think upon the live that sit 

And drink the Hallow-ale, 
Whilst they lie stark within the pit, 

Nailed down with many a nail. 

And sore they wonder if the thought 

Live in them of the dead; 
And sore with wish they are distraught 

To feel the firelight red. 



The Ballad of IsobcL 127 

Betwixt the day and yet the day 

The Saints' and Souls' divide, 
The dead folk rise out of the clay 

And wander far and wide. 

They wander o'er the sheeted snow, 

Chill with the frore of death, 
Until they see the windows glow 

With the fire's ruddy breath. 

And if the cottage door be fast 

And but the light win out, 
All night, until their hour is past, 

The dead walk thereabout. 

And all night long the live folk hear 

Their windy song of sighs. 
And waken all for very fear, 

Until the white day rise. 

But if the folk be piteous, 

And pity the poor dead 
That weary in the narrow house. 

Upon the cold earth's bed, 

They pile the peats upon the fire 

And leave the door ajar. 
That so the rosy flame aspire 

To where the grey ghosts are. 

And syne they sweep the cottage floor 

And set the hearthside chair : 
The sad dead watch beside the door 

Till midnight still the air. 



28 Latter-Day Ballads. 

And then towards the friendly glow 

Come trooping in the dead : 
Until the cocks for morning crow, 

They sit by the fire red. 

II. 

' Oh, I have wearied long enough ! 

I '11 weary me no more ; 
But I will watch for my dead love 

Till Hallow-tide be o'er.' 

He set the door across the sill ; 

The moonlight fluttered in : 
The sad snow covered heath and hill, 
As far as eye could win. 

The thin frost feathered in the air ; 

All dumb the white world lay ; 
Night sat on it as cold and fair 

As death upon a may. 

He turned him back into the room 

And sat him by the fire : 
Night darkened round him in the gloom, 

The shadowtide rose higher. 

He rose and looked out o'er the hill 

To where the grey kirk lay ; 
The midnight quiet was so still, 

He heard the bell-chimes play. 

Twelve times he heard the sweet bell chime ; 

No whit he stirred or spoke ; 
But his eyes fixed, as if on Time 

The hour of judgment broke. 



TJie Ballad of Isabel, 129 

And as the last stroke fell and died, 

Over the kirkyard grey 
Him seemed he saw a blue flame glide, 

Among the graves at play. 

A flutter waved upon the breeze 

As of a spirit's wings: 
A wind went by him through the trees, 

That spoke of heavenly things. 

Him seemed he heard a sound of feet 

Upon the silver snow : 
A rush of robes by him did fleet, 

A sighing soft and low. 

He turned and sat him down again ; 

The midnight filled the place: 
The tears ran down like silent rain 

Upon his weary face. 

' She will not come to me,' he said ; 

'The death-swoon is too strong: 
She hath forgot me with the dead, — 

Me that she loved so long. 

' She will not come : she sleeps too sweet 

Within the quiet ground. 
What worth is love, when life is fleet. 

And sleep in death so sound } 

* She will not come ! ' — A soft cold air 

Upon his forehead fell : 
He turned him to the empty chair; 

And there sat Isobel. 
9 



130 Latier-Day Ballads. 

His dead love sat him side by side, 
His Minnie white and wan: 

Within the tomb she could not bide, 
Whilst he sat weeping on. 

Ah, wasted, wasted was her face. 
And sore her cheek was white ; 

But in her eyes the ancient grace 
Burnt with a feeble light. 

l^pon her breast the graveweed grey 

Fell to her little feet ; 
But still the golden tresses lay 

About her bosom sweet. 

'Ah, how is 't with ye, Isobel.'* 
How pale ye look and cold ! 

Ah, sore it is to think ye dwell 
Alone beneath the mould ! 

' Is 't weary for our love ye 've grown 
From dwelling with the dead. 

Or shivering from the cold gravestone 
To lind the firelight red 1 ' 

' Oh, 't is not that I 'm lorn of love. 

Or that a-cold I lie: 
I trust in God that is above 

To bring you by and by. 

' I feel your kisses on my face, — 
Your kisses sweet and warm : 

Your love is in the burial-place ; 
I fear nor cold nor worm. 



The Ballad of Isabel . 131 

' 1 feel the love within your heart 

That beats for me alone : 
I fear not change upon your part, 

Nor crave for the unknown. 

' For to the dead no faint fears cling : 

All certainty have they : 
They know (and smile at sorrowing) 

Love never dies away. 

' No harm can reach me in Death's deep: 

It hath no fear for me : 
(iod sweetens it to lie and sleep, 

Until His face I see. 

' He makes it sweet to lie and wait 

Till we together meet, 
And hand-in-hand athwart the gate 

Pass up the golden street. 

* But where 's the babe that at my side 

Slept sweetly long ago ? 
So sore to me to-night it cried, 

I could not choose but go. 

' I heard its voice so full of wail, 

It woke me in the grave : 
Its sighs came to me on the gale. 

Across the wintry wave. 

' For though death lap her wide and wild, 

A mother cannot rest 
Except her little sucking child 

Be sleeping at her breast.' 



132 Latter- Day Ballads. 

' Ah, know'st thou not, my love ? ' he said, 
' Methought the dead knew all, 

When in that night of doom and dread 
The moving w^aters' wall 

' Smote on our ship and drove it down 

Beneath the raging sea, 
All of our company did drown, 

Alas ! save only me. 

' And me the cruel billows cast 

Aswoon upon the strand ; 
Thou dead within my arms held fast, 

Hand locked in other's hand. 

' The ocean never to this day 

Gave up our baby dead : 
Ah, woe is me that life should stay, 

When all its sweet is fled ! ' 

* Go down,' said she, ' to the seashore : 

God taketh ruth on thee : 
Search well ; and I will come once more 

Ere yet the midnight be.' 

She bent her sweet pale mouth to his : 
The snowdrift from the sky 

Falls not so cold as did that kiss : 
He shook as he should die. 

She looked on him with yearning eyes 
And vanished from his sight : 

He heard the matin cock crow thrice ; 
The morning glimmered white. 



The Ballad of Isobel. 133 



Then from his place he rose and sought 

The shore beside the sea : 
And there all day he searched, but nought 

Until the eve found he. 

At last a pale star glittered through 

The growing dusk of night, 
And fell upon the waste of blue, 

A trembling wand of light. 

And lo ! a wondrous thing befell : 
As though the small star's ray 

Availed to break some year-old spell 
That on the water lay. 

A white form rose out of the deep 

Where it so long had lain. 
Cradled within the cold death-sleep : 

He knew his babe again. 

It floated softly to his feet ; 

White as a flower it lay : 
God's love had kept its body sweet, 

Unravished of decay. 

He thanked God weeping for His grace ; 

And many a tear he shed, 
And many a kiss upon its face. 

That smiled as do the dead. 

Then to the kirkyard where the maid 

Slept cold in clay he hied : 
And with a loving hand he laid 

The baby by her side. 



134 Latter- Day Ballads. 



The (lark fell down upon the earth ; 

Night held the quiet air : 
He sat before the glowing hearth, 

Beside the enii^ty chair. 

Twelve times at last lor middle night 
Rang out the kirkyard bell : 

Ere yet the twelfth was silent quite, 
By him sat Isobel. 

Within her arms their little child 
Lay pillowed on her breast : 

Death seemed to it as soft and mild 
As heaven to the blest. 

Ah, no more wasted was her face, 
Nor white her cheek and wan I 

The splendor of a heavenly grace 
Upon her forehead shone. 

She seemed again the golden girl 
Of the long-vanished years : 

Her face shone as a great sweet pearl 
Washed and made white with tears. 

The light of heaven filled her eyes 
With soft and splendid flame ; 

Out of the heart of Paradise 
It seemed as if she came. 

He looked upon her beauty bright ; 

And sore, sore weepit he, 
To think how many a day and night 

Between thom yet must be. 



The Ballad of Isabel. 135 

He looked at her with many a sigh ; 

For sick he was with pain, 
To think how many a year must Hy 

Kre tiicy two met again. 

She looked on him : no sadness lay 

Upon her tender mouth ; 
Syne she smiled, a smile as gay 

And glad as in her youtli. 

' He of good cheer, dear heart,' said she : 

' Yet but a little year 
Ere thou and I together see 

The end of doubt and fear. 

* Come once again the saints' night ring 

Unto the spirits' feet, 
Olad with the end of sorrowing, 

Once more we three shall meet : 

' We three shall meet no more to ])art 

Vox all eternity ; 
'Gin I come not to thee, sweetheart, 

Do thou come then to me.' 



Another year is past and gone : 
Once more the lingering light 

Fades from the sky, and dusk falls down 
Upon the Holy Night. 

The hearth is clear; the fire burns red; 

Tiie door stands open wide : 
He waits for the beloved dead 

To come with Hallow-tide. 



136 Lntttr Day Iut//(i(/s. 

The niiclnii;h( rin<;s out loud and slow 

Across tho frosty air : 
He sits before the liii'li<;lit <;lo\v, 

Heside the waitiut; chair. 

The last chime dies into the iii<;ht : 
'I'he stillness <;i(nvs apace : 

And yet there conies no lady bright 
To (jII (he empty place. 

No soft hanil falls upon his hair ; 

No li<;ht breath fans his brow : 
The ni<;ht is empty everywhere ; 

Tlu' birds sleep on the l)ou<;h. 

* Ah, woe is me ! the nii;ht fades fast ; 

I ler i)i()mise is forgot : 
Alas ! ' he said, ' the houis lly past, 
And still she cometh not ! 

' So sweet she sleeps, and sleeps with her 

The baby at her breast. 
No thought of earthly love can stir 

Their undesireful rest. 

* Ah, who can tell but Time may lay 

Betwixt us such a space 
That hnplv at the Judixment Day 
.Slu> will for^'t mv face.' 

The still nii;ht ipii\ered as he spoke; 

1 le felt the midnight air 
Throb, and a little bree/e awoke 

Across the heather bare. 



llir Iui//<(d of Isohil. 



137 



And in llic wind him sccnicd lie heard 
Mis line love's voice once more: 

Afiii" IL came, and but one word 
' Come ! ' unto him it hore. 

A faiiil hope dickered in his hreasf : 

lie rosi- and look his way 
Where nndt.M'nealh \\\v. brown hilTs crest 

The (|ui(;t kirkyard lay. 

Me i)ushed the lychj^ate to the wall : 

Aj^ainsl the moonless sky 
The ,L;rey kirk towered dusk and lall : 

I leaven seemed on it to lie. 

Dead darkness held the holy ^loinid; 

I lis feel went in and onl, 
And stnmbh^d at each grassy mound, 

As one that is in doubt. 

Then snddeidy the sky ^rew white; 

The moon thrust throuj^h the ^loom ; 
'I'he tall tower's shade; aj^ainst her light 

I'CII on his Mimne\s tomb. 

J'"uli on her ^rave its shadow fell, 

As 'twere a giant's hand, 
Thai molionless the way doth tell 

Unlo the heavenly land. 

lie lell upon his knees thereby 

And kissed the holy earlh, 
Wherein llu; oidy twain did lie 

'i'hat made life living-worth. 



38 Latter- Day Ballads. 

He knelt; no longer did he weep; 

Great peace was on his soul : 
Sleep sank on him, a wondrous sleep, 

Assaining death and dole. 

And in the sleep him seemed he stood 

Before a high gold door, 
Upon whose midst the blessed Rood 

Burnt like an opal's core. 

Christ shining on the cross to see 

Was there for all device : 
Within he saw the almond-tree 

That grows in Paradise. 

He knew the fallen almond-flowers 
That drop without the gate. 

So with their scent the tardy hours 
Be cheered for those that wait. 

And as he looked, a glimmering light 
Shone through the blazoned bars.: 

The wide tall gate grew blue and bright 
As Heaven with the stars. 

A postern opened in his face ; 

Sweet savors breathed about; 
And through the little open space 

A fair white hand came out: 

A hand as white as ermolin, 

A hand he knew full well, 
Beckoned to him to enter in, — 

The hand of Isobel. 



The Ballad of Isabel. 139 

Lord Christ, Thy morning tarrieth long : 

The shadows come and go : 
These three have heard the angels' song: 

Still many wait below. 

These three on Heaven's honey feed, 

And milk of Paradise : 
How long before for us indeed 

The hills of Heaven rise ? 

How long before, joined hand-in-hand 

With all the dear-loved dead, 
We pass along the heavenly land 

And hear the angels' tread ? 

The night is long : the way is drear : 

Our hearts faint for the light : 
Vouchsafe, Lord Christ, the day draw near, 

The morning of Thy sight ! 



140 Latter- Day Ballads. 



By Lord Tennyson. 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 

(in tiik isle of wight.) 

'Wait a little,' you say, 'you arc sure it'll all come right,' 
lUit the boy was born i' trouble, an' looks so wan an' so 

white : 
Wait! an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't to wait for \o\\%. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — No, no, you are doiny; 

me wrong ! 
Harry and I were married : the boy can hold up his head. 
The boy was born in wedlock, but after my man was dead ; 
I ha' worked for him fifteen years, an' I work an' I wait to 

the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you are my only friend. 

Doctor \[ yoif can wait, I 11 tell you the tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he called me his own 

little wife ; 
I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry when he was 

away, 
v\n' when we played together, T loved him better than 

play ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he made me the cowslip 

ball, 
He fought the boys that were rude an' I loved him better 

than all. 



TJie First Quarrel. 141 

Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I had but to look in 
his face. 

There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that had 

need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm; he sent, an' the father 

agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to tiie Dorsetshire farm for years an' 

for years ; 
I walked with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' we 

parted in tears. 
The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a-ringing 

the bell, 
' I '11 never love any but you, God bless you, my own little 

Nell.' 

I was a child, an' he was a child, an' he came to harm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with him up at the 

farm. 
One had deceived her an' left her alone with her sin an' 

her shame, 
And so she was wicked with Harry ; the girl was the most 

to blame. 

And years went over till I that was little had grown so 

tall. 
The men would say of the maids, 'Our Nelly's the flower 

of 'em all.' 
I did n't take heed o' them, but I taught myself ail I 

could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came home 

for good. 



142 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Often I seemed unhappy, and often as happy too, 

For I heard it abroad in the fields, ' I '11 never love any but 

you;' 
' I '11 never love any but you ' the morning song of the 

lark, 
' I '11 never love any but you ' the nightingale's hymn in the 

dark. 

And Harry came home at last, but he looked at me sidelong 

and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone 

by, 

I had grown so handsome and tall — that I might ha' forgot 

him somehow, 
For he thought — there were other lads —he was feared to 

look at me now. 

Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' Christ- 
mas day. 

Married among the red berries, an' all as merry as May — 

Those were the pleasant times, my house an' my man were 
my pride, 

We seemed like ships i' the Channel a-sailing with wind 
an' tide. 

But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the villages 

round, 
So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be 

found ; 
An' he wrote, ' I ha' six weeks' work, little wife, so far as 

I know; 
I '11 come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss you before I go.' 



The First Quarrel. I43 

So I set to righting the house, for was n't he coming that 

day? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was pushed in a corner 

away ; 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a letter along wi' the 

rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand in a hornet's nest. 

'Sweetheart' — this was the letter — this was the letter I 

read — 
' You promised to find me work enar you, an' I wish I was 

dead — 
Did n't you kiss me an' promise ? you have n't done it, my 

lad, 
An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish that I 

had; 

I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times that had 

past, 
Before I quarrelled with Harry — tny quarrel — the first an' 

the last. 

For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that drove me 

wild, 
An' he told it me all at once, as simple as any child, 
' What can it matter, my lass, what I did wi' my single 

hfe? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife ; 
An' she was n't one o' the worst.' ' Then,' I said, ' I 'm 

none o' the best.' 
An' he smiled at me, ' Ain't you, my love ? Come, come, 

httle wife, let it rest ! 



144 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The man is n't like the woman, no need to make such a 

stir.' 
But he angered me all the more, an' I said, ' You were 

keeping with her. 
When I was a-loving you all along an' the same as before.' 
An' he did n't speak for a while, an' he angered me more 

and more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, ' Let by-gones 

be!' 
'By-gones! you kept yours hushed,' I said, 'when you 

married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains ; an' she — in her shame an' 

her sin — 
You '11 have her to nurse my child, if 1 die o' my lying 

in! 
You'll make her its second mother! I hate her — an' I 

hate you ! ' 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha' beaten me black 

an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when I were so crazy 

wi' spite, 
' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it '11 all come right.' 

An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I watched him, an' 

when he came in 
I felt that my heart was hard, he was all wet thro' to the 

skin. 
An' I never said 'off wi' the wet,' I never said ' on wi' the 

dry,' 
So I knew my heart was hard, when he came to bid me 

good-by. 



TJie First Quarrel. 145 

' You said that you hated me, Ellen, but that is n't true, 

you know ; 
I am going to leave you a bit — you'll kiss me before I 

go?' 

'Going! you're going to her — kiss her— if you will,' I 

said, — 
I was near my time wi' the boy, I must ha' been light i' my 

head, — 
' 1 had sooner be cursed than kissed ! ' — I did n't know 

well what I meant, 
But 1 turned my face from hint^ an' he turned his face an' 

he went. 

And then he sent me a letter, ' I 've gotten my work to do ; 
You would n't kiss me, my lass, an' I never loved any but 

you; 
I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry for what she wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go to-night by the 

boat.' 

An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought of him out at 

sea. 
An' I felt I had been to blame ; he was always kind to me. 
' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it '11 all come right ' — 
An' the boat went down that night — the boat went down 

that niofht. 



46 Latter-Day Ballads. 



By Dante Gabriel Kossetti. 

THE KING'S TRAGEDY.4 

James I. of Scots — 20TH February, 1437. 

I Catherine am a Douglas born, 

A name to all Scots dear ; 
And Kate Barlass they 've called me now 

Through many a waning year. 

This old arm 's withered now. 'T was once 

Most deft 'mong maidens all 
To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, 

To smite the palm-play ball. 

In hall adown the close-linked dance 
It has shone most white and fair; 
It has been the rest for a true lord's head, 
And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, 
And the bar to a King's chambere. 

Ay, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, 

And hark with bated breath 
How good King James, King Robert's son, 

Was foully done to death. 

Through all the days of his gallant youth 

The princely James was pent. 
By his friends at first and then by his foes, 

In long imprisonment. 



The King s Tragedy. 147 

For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, 

By treason's murderous brood 
Was slain; and the father quaked for the child 

With the royal mortal blood. 

r the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care, 

Was his childhood's life assured ; 
And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke 
Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke 

His youth for long years immured. 

Yet in all things meet for a kingly man 

Himself did he approve ; 
And the nightingale through his prison-wall 

Taught him both lore and love. 

For once, when the bird's song drew him close 

To the opened window-pane, 
Tn her bowers beneath a lady stood, 
A light of life to his sorrowful mood, 

Like a lily amid the rain. 

And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note 

He framed a sweeter song, — 
More sweet than ever a poet's heart 

Gave yet to the English tongue. 

She was a lady of royal blood ; 

And when, past sorrow and teen. 
He stood where still through his crownless years 

His Scotish realm had been. 
At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, 

A heart-wed King and Queen. 



148 Latter- Day Ballads. 

But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, 

And song be turned to moan, 
And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate. 
When the tempest-waves of a troubled State 

Are beating against a throne. 

Yet well they loved ; and the god of Love, 

Whom well the King had sung, 
Might find on the earth no truer hearts 

His lowliest swains among. 

From the days when first she rode abroad 
With Scotish maids in her train, 

I Catherine Douglas won the trust 
Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane. 

And oft she sighed, ' To be born a King ! ' 

And oft along the way, 
When she saw the homely lovers pass 

She has said, ' Alack the day ! ' 

Years waned, — the loving and toiling years : 

Till England's wrong renewed 
Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, 

To the open field of feud. 

'T was when the King and his host were met 

At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold, 
The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp 

With a tale of dread to be told. 

And she showed him a secret letter writ 

That spoke of treasonous strife, 
And how a band of his noblest lords 

Were sworn to take his life. 



TJic Kings Ti^agedy. 149 

'And it may be here or it may be there, 

In the camp or the court,' she said : 
' But for my sake come to your people's arms 

And guard your royal head.' 

Quoth he, ' 'T is the fifteenth day of the siege, 

And the castle 's nigh to yield.' 
' Oh, face your foes on your throne,' she cried, 

' And show the power you wield ; 
And under your Scotish people's love 

You shall sit as under your shield.' 

At the fair Queen's side I stood that day 

When he bade them raise the siege, 
And back to his Court he sped to know 

How the lords would meet their Liege. 

But when he summoned his Parliament, 

The louring brows hung round, 
Like clouds that circle the mountain-head 

Ere the first low thunders sound. 

For he had tamed the nobles' lust 

And curbed their power and pride. 
And reached out an arm to right the poor 

Through Scotland far and wide ; 
And many a lordly wrong-doer 

By the headsman's axe had died. 

'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, 

The bold o'ermastering man : 
* O King, in the name of your Three Estates 

I set you under their ban ! 



150 Latter- Day Ballads. 

' For, as your lords made oath to you 

Of service and fealty, 
Even in like wise you pledged your oath 

Their faithful sire to be ; 

* Vet all we here that are nobly sprung 

Have mourned dear kith and kin 
Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse 

Did your bloody rule begin.' 

With that he laid his hands on his King: 

' Is this not so, my lords ? ' 
But of all who had sworn to league with him 

Not one spake back to his words. 

Quoth the King: 'Thou speak'st but for one Estate, 

Nor doth it avow thy gage. 
Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence ! ' 

The Graeme fired dark with rage : 
'Who works for lesser men than himself, 

He earns but a witless wage ! ' 

But soon from the dungeon where he lay 

He won by privy plots. 
And forth he fled with a price on his head 

To the country of the Wild Scots. 

And word there came from Sir Robert Grceme 

To the King at Edinbro' : 
' No Liege of mine thou art ; but I see 
From this day forth alone in thee 

God's creature, my mortal foe. 



The King's Tragedy. 151 

'Through thee are my wife and children lost, 

My heritage and lands ; 
And when my God shall show me a way, 
Thyself my mortal foe will I slay 

With these my proper hands.' 

Against the coming of Christmastide 

That year the King bade call 
r the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth 

A solemn festival. 

And we of his household rode with him 

In a close-ranked company; 
But not till the sun had sunk from his throne 

Did we reach the Scotish Sea. 

That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 

'Neath a toilsome moon half seen ; 
The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high ; 
And where there was a line of the sky, 

Wild wings loomed dark between. 

And on a rock of the black beach-side. 

By the veiled moon dimly lit. 
There was something seemed to heave with life 

As the King drew nigh to it. 

And was it only the tossing furze 

Or break of the waste sea-wold ? 
Or was it an eagle bent to the blast ? 
When near we came, we knew it at last 

For a woman tattered and old. 



152 Latter- Day Ballads. 

But it seemed as though by a fire within 

Her writhen limbs were wrung; 
And as soon as the King was close to her, 

She stood up gaunt and strong. 

"T was then the moon sailed clear of the rack 

On high in her hollow dome ; 
And still as aloft with hoary crest 

Each clamorous wave rang home, 
Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed 

Amid the champing foam. 

And the woman held his eyes with her eyes : 

' O King, thou art come at last ; 
But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea 

To my sight for four years past. 

' Four years it is since first I met, 
'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu, 

A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud, 
And that shape for thine I knew. 

' A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle 

I saw thee pass in the breeze, 
With the cerecloth risen above thy feet 

And wound about thy knees. 

' And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, 

As a wanderer without rest, 
Thou cam'st with both thine arms i' the shroud 

That clung high up thy breast. 



The King's Tragedy. I53 

'And in this hour I find thee here, 

And well mine eyes may note 
That the winding-sheet hath passed thy breast 

And risen around thy throat. 

' And when I meet thee again, O King, 

That of death hast such sore drouth, — 
Except thou turn again on this shore,— 
The winding-sheet shall have moved once more 
And covered thine eyes and mouth. 

' O King, whom poor men bless for their King, 

Of thy fate be not so fain ; 
But these my words for God's message take. 
And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake 

Who rides beside thy rein ! ' 

While the woman spoke, the King's horse reared 

As if it would breast the sea ; 
And the Queen turned pale as she heard on the gale 

The voice die dolorously. 

When the woman ceased, the steed was still, 

But the King gazed on her yet. 
And in silence save for the wail of the sea 

His eyes and her eyes met. 

At last he said : ' God's ways are His own ; 

Man is but shadow and dust. 
Last night I prayed by His altar-stone; 
To-night I wend to the Feast of His Son ; 

And in Him I set my trust. 



54 Latter-Day Ballads. 

* I have held my people in sacred charge, 

And have not feared the sting 
Of proud men's hate, — to His will resigned 
Who has but one same death for a hind 

And one same death for a King. 

'And if God in His wisdom have brought close 

The day when I must die, 
That day by water or fire or air 
My feet shall fall in the destined snare 

Wherever my road may lie. 

' What man can say but the Fiend hath set 

Thy sorcery on my path, 
My heart with the fear of death to fill. 
And turn me against God's very will 

To sink in His burning wrath ? ' 

The woman stood as the train rode past. 

And moved nor limb nor eye ; 
And when we were shipped, we saw her there 

Still standing against the sky. 

As the ship made way, the moon once more 

Sank slow in her rising pall ; 
And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the King, 

And I said, * The Heavens know all.' 

And now, ye lasses, must ye hear 

How my name is Kate Barlass, — 
But a little thing, when all the tale 

Is told of the weary mass 
Of crime and woe which in Scotland's realm 

God's will let come to pass. 



The Kings Tragedy. 155 

'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth 

That the King and all his Court 
Were met, the Christmas Feast being done, 

For solace and disport. 

'T was a wind-wild eve in February, 

And against the casement-pane 
The branches smote like summoning hands. 

And muttered the driving rain. 

And when the wind swooped over the lift 

And made the whole heaven frown, 
It seemed a grip was laid on the walls 

To tug the house-top down. 

And the Queen was there, more stately fair 

Than a lily in garden set ; 
And the King was loth to stir from her side ; 
For as on the day when she was his bride, 

Even so he loved her yet. 

And the Earl of Athole, the King's false friend, 

Sat with him at the board ; 
And Robert Stuart the chamberlain 

Who had sold his sovereign Lord. 

Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber there 

Would fain have told him all, 
And vainly four times that night he strove 

To reach the King through the hall. 

But the wine is bright at the goblet's brim 

Though the poison lurk beneath ; 
And the apples still are red on the tree 
Within whose shade may the adder be 

That shall turn thy life to death. 



156 La tier- Day Ballads. 

There was a knight of the King's fast friends 
Whom he called the King of Love; 

And to such bright cheer and courtesy 
That name might best behove. 

And the King and Queen both loved him well 

For his gentle knightliness ; 
And with him the King, as that eve wore on, 

Was playing at the chess. 

And the King said (for he thought to jest 

And soothe the Queen thereby): 
' In a book 't is writ that this same year 

A King shall in Scotland die. 

* And I have pondered the matter o'er. 
And this I have found, Sir Hugh, — 

There are but two Kings on Scotish ground, 
And those Kings are I and you. 

' And I have a wife and a new-born heir. 

And you are yourself alone; 
So stand you stark at my side with me 

To guard our double throne. 

' For here sit I and my wife and child, 

As well your heart shall approve, 
In full surrender and soothfastness, 

Beneath your Kingdom of Love.' 

And the Knight laughed, and the Queen too smiled; 

Ikit I knew her heavy thought. 
And I strove to find in the good King's jest 

What cheer might thence be wrought. 



The Kings Tragedy, 157 

And I said, ' My Licgc, for the Queen's dear love 

Now sing the song that of old 
You made, when a captive Prince you lay, 
And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray, 

In Windsor's castle-hold.' 

Then he smiled the smile I knew so well 
When he thought to please the Queen, — 

The smile which under all bitter frowns 
Of hate that rose between 

Forever dwelt at the poet's heart 
Like the bird of love unseen. 

And he kissed her hand and took his harp, 

And the music sweetly rang ; 
And when the song burst forth, it seemed 

'Twas the nightingale that sang. 

' Worships ye lovers, on tJiis May : 
Of bliss your kalends are be<^tin : 

Sin}r with tis, A way, Winter, away / 

Come, Stunnier, the sweet season and sun / 
Awake for shame, —your heaven is won, — 

And amorously your heads lift all : 

Thank Love, that you to his grace doth call !' 

But when he bent to the Queen, and sang 

The speech whose praise was hers. 
It seemed his voice was the voice of the Spring 

And the voice of the by-gone years. 

' The fairest and the freshest flower 
That ever I saw btfore that hour, 



158 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The which o' the sudden made to start 
The blood of my body to my heart. 

Ah sweet., are ye a worldly creature, 
Or heavenly thing in form of naticre ? ' 

And the song was long, and richly stored 
With wonder and beauteous things ; 

And the harp was tuned to every change 
Of minstrel ministerings ; 

But when he spoke of the Queen at the last, 
Its strings were his own heart-strings. 

' Unworthy but only of her grace, 

Upon Love's 7'ock that V easy and sure, 

In guerdon of all my love's space 
She took 7ne her humble creature. 
Thus fell my blissful aventure 

In youth of love that from day to day 

Flowereih aye new, and further I say. 

' To reckon all the circumstance 
As it happed when lessen gan 7ny sore. 

Of my rancor and woful chance^ 
It were too long., — / have done therefor, 
And of this flower I say no inore 

But unto my help her heart hath tended 

And even from death her man defended,^ 

' Aye, even from death,' to myself I said ; 

For I thought of the day when she 
Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege. 

Of the fell confederacy. 



The Kings Tragedy. i59 

But Death even then took aim as he sang 

With an arrow deadly bright ; 
And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof, 
And the wings were spread far over the roof 

More dark than the winter night. 

Yet truly along the amorous song 

Of Love's high pomp and state 
There were words of Fortune's trackless doom. 

And the dreadful face of Fate. 

And oft have I heard again in dreams 

The voice of dire appeal 
In which the King then sang of the pit 

That is under Fortune's wheel. 

• And mider the wheel beheld I there 

An tigly Pit as deep as hell, 
That to behold I quaked for fear : 

And this I heard, that who therein fell 

Carne no more up, tidings to tell : 
Whereat, astound of the fearful sight, 
I wist not what to do for fi'ight? 

And oft has my thought called up again 
These words of the changeful song : 
' Wist thou thy pain and thy travail 
To come, well mighfst thou weep and wail ! ' 
And our wail, O God ! is long. 

But the song's end was all of his love ; 

And well his heart was graced 
With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes 

As his arm went round her waist. 



i6o Latter- Day Ballads. 

And on the swell of her long fair throat 

Close clung the necklet-chain 
As he bent her pearl-tired head aside, 
And in the warmth of his love and pride 

He kissed her lips full fain. 

And her true face was a rosy red, 

The very red of the rose 
That, couched on the happy garden-bed, 

In the summer sunlight glows. 

And all the wondrous things of love 
That sang so sweet through the song 

Were in the look that met in their eyes, 
And the look was deep and long, 

'T was then a knock came at the outer gate. 
And the usher sought the King. 

' The woman you met by the Scotish Sea, 
My Liege, would tell you a thing ; 

And she says that her present need for speech 
Will bear no gainsaying.' 

And the King said : ' The hour is late ; 

To-morrow will serve, I ween.' 
Then he charged the usher strictly, and said: 

' No word of this to the Queen.' 

But the usher came again to the King. 

' Shall I call her back ? ' quoth he : 
' For as she went on her way, she cried, 

" Woe ! Woe ! then the thing must be ! " ' 



The Kings Tragedy. i6i 

And the King paused, but he did not speak. 

Then he called for the Voidee-cup : 
And as we heard the twelfth hour strike, 
There by true lips and false lips alike 

Was the draught of trust drained up. 

So with reverence meet to King and Queen 

To bed went all from the board ; 
And the last to leave of the courtly train 
Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain 

Who had sold his sovereign lord. 

And all the locks of the chamber-door 

Had the traitor riven and brast ; 
And that Fate might win sure way from afar, 
He had drawn out every bolt and bar 

That made the entrance fast. 

And now at midnight he stole his way 

To the moat of the outer wall, 
And laid strong hurdles closely across 

Where the traitors' tread should fall. 

But we that were the Queen's bower-maids 

Alone were left behind ; 
And with heed we drew the curtains close 

Against the winter wind. 

And now that all was still through the hall, 

More clearly we heard the rain 
That clamored ever against the glass, 

And the boughs that beat on the pane. 



62 Latter- Day Ballads. 

But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, 

And through empty space around 
The shadows cast on the arrased wall 
'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall 

Like spectres sprung from the ground. 

And the bed was dight in a deep alcove ; 

And as he stood by the fire 
The King was still in talk with the Queen 

While he doffed his goodly attire. 

And the song had brought the image back 

Of many a by-gone year ; 
And many a loving word they said 
With hand in hand and head laid to head ; 

And none of us went anear. 

But Love was weeping outside the house, 

A child in the piteous rain ; 
And as he watched the arrow of Death, 
He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath 

That never should fly again. 

And now beneath the window arose 

A wild voice Suddenly : 
And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell back 

As for bitter dule to dree ; 
And all of us knew the woman's voice 

Who spoke by the Scotish Sea. 

' O King,' she cried, ' in an evil hour 

They drove me from thy gate ; 
And yet my voice must rise to thine ears ; 

But alas ! it comes too late ! 



The Kijigs Tragedy. 163 

' Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, 
When the moon was dead in the skies, 

O King, in a death-light of thine own 
I saw thy shape arise. 

'And in full season, as erst I said, 

The doom had gained its growth ; 
And the shroud had risen above thy neck 

And covered thine eyes and mouth. 

' And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke, 

And still thy soul stood there ; 
And I thought its silence cried to my soul 

As the first rays crowned its hair. 

' Since then have I journeyed fast and fain 

In very despite of Fate, 
Lest Hope might still be found in God's will : 

But they drove me from thy gate. 

* For every man on God's ground, O King, 

His death grows up from his birth 
In a shadow-plant perpetually ; 
And thine towers high, a black yew-tree. 

O'er the Charterhouse of Perth ! ' 

That room was built far out from the house; 

And none but we in the room 
Might hear the voice that rose beneath, 

Nor the tread of the coming doom. 

For now there came a torchlight-glare, 

And a clang of arms there came ; 
And not a soul in that space but thought 

Of the foe Sir Robert Graeme. 



:64 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots, 

O'er mountain, valley, and glen. 
He had brought with him in murderous league 

Three hundred armed men. 

The King knew all in an instant's flash, 

And like a King did he stand ; 
But there was no armor in all the room, 

Nor weapon lay to his hand. 

And all we women flew to the door 
And thought to have made it fast ; 

But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone 
And the locks were riven and brast. 

And he caught the pale, pale Queen in his arms 

As the iron footsteps fell, — 
Then loosed her, standing alone, and said, 

' Our bliss was our farewell ! ' 

And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer, 

And he crossed his brow and breast ; 
And proudly in royal hardihood 
Even so with folded arms he stood, — 
The prize of the bloody quest. 

Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer. 

' O Catherine, help ! ' she cried. 
And low at his feet we clasped his knees 

Together side by side. 
' Oh ! even a King, for his people's sake, 

From treasonous death must hide ! ' 



The Kings Tragedy. 165 

* For her sake most ! ' I cried, and I marked 
The pang that my words could wring. 

And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook 
I snatched and held to the King: 

' Wrench up the plank ! and the vault beneath 
Shall yield safe harboring.' 

With brows low-bent, from my eager hand 

The heavy heft did he take; 
And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore ; 
And as he frowned through the open floor, 

Again I said, ' For her sake ! ' 

Then he cried to the Queen, ' God's will be done .' " 
For her hands were clasped in prayer. 

And down he sprang to the inner crypt; 

And straight we closed the plank he had ripped 
And toiled to smooth it fair. 

(Alas I in that vault a gap once was 

Wherethro' the King might have fled : 
But three days since close-walled had it been 
By his will ; for the ball would roll therein 
When without at the palm he played.) 

Then the Queen cried, ' Catherine, keep the door, 

And I to this will suffice ! ' 
At her word I rose all dazed to my feet. 

And my heart was fire and ice. 

And louder ever the voices grew, 

And the tramp of men in mail ; 
Until to my brain it seemed to be 
As though I tossed on a ship at sea 

In the teeth of a crashing gale. 



1 66 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Then back I flew to the rest ; and hard 

We strove with sinews knit 
To force the table against the door ; 

But we might not compass it. 

Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall 
To the place of the hearthstone-sill ; 

And the Queen bent ever above the floor, 
For the plank was rising still. 

And now the rush was heard on the stair, 
And ' God, what help ? ' was our cry. 

And was I frenzied or was I bold ? 

I looked at each empty stanchion-hold, 
And no bar but my arm had I ! 

Like iron felt my arm, as through 

The staple I made it pass : 
Alack ! it was flesh and bone — no more ! 
'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the door, 

But I fell back Kate Barlass. 

With that they all thronged into the hall, 

Half dim to my failing ken ; 
And the space that was but a void before 

Was a crowd of wrathful men. 

Behind the door I had fall'n and lay. 
Yet my sense was wildly aware, 

And for all the pain of my shattered arm 
I never fainted there. 

Even as I fell, my eyes were cast 

Where the King leaped down to the pit ; 

And lo ! the plank was smooth in its place, 
And the Queen stood far from it. 



TJie King's Tragedy. i6 

And under the litters and through the bed 

And within the presses all 
The traitors sought for the King, and pierced 

The arras around the wall. 

And through the chamber they ramped and stormed 

Like lions loose in the lair, 
And scarce could trust to their very eyes, — 

P^or behold ! no King was there. 

Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried, 

' Now tell us, where is thy lord ? ' 
And he held the sharp point over her heart : 
She drooped not her eyes nor did she start, 

But she answered never a word. 

Then the sword half pierced the true, true breast : 

But it was the Graeme's own son 
Cried, ' This is a woman, — we seek a man ! ' 

And away from her girdle-zone 
He struck the point of the murderous steel; 

And that foul deed was not done. 

And forth flowed all the throng like a sea, 

And 't was empty space once more ; 
And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen 

As I lay behind the door. 

And I said : ' Dear lady, leave me here. 

For I cannot help you now ; 
But fly while you may, and none shall reck 

Of my place here lying low.' 



1 68 Latter-Day Ballads, 

And she said, ' My Catherine, God help thee ! " 
Then she looked to the distant floor, 

And clasping her hands, ' O God help him' 
She sobbed, ' for we can no more ! ' 

But God He knows what help may mean, 

If it mean to live or to die ; 
And what sore sorrow and mighty moan 
On earth it may cost ere yet a throne 

Be filled in His house on high. 

And now the ladies fled with the Queen : 

And thorough the open door 
The night- wind wailed round the empty room 

And the rushes shook on the floor. 

And the bed drooped low in the dark recess 

Whence the arras was rent away; 
And the firelight still shone over the space 

Where our hidden secret lay. 

And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit 

The window high in the wall, — 
Bright beams that on the plank that I knew 

Through the painted pane did fall, 
And gleamed with the splendor of Scotland's crown 

And shield armorial. 

But then a great wind swept up the skies, 

And the climbing moon fell back ; 
And the royal blazon fled from the floor, 

And nought remained on its track ; 
And high in the darkened window-pane 

The shield and the crown were black. 



The Kings Tragedy. 169 

And what I say next I partly saw 

And partly I heard, in sooth, 
And partly since from the murderers' lips 

The torture wrung the truth. 

For now again came the armed tread, 

And fast through the hall it fell ; 
But the throng was less : and ere I saw, 

By the voice without I could tell 
That Robert Stuart had come with them, 

Who knew that chamber well. 

And over the space the Graeme strode dark 

With his mantle round him flung ; 
And in his eye was a flaming light, 

But not a word on his tongue. 

And Stuart held a torch to the floor, 

And he found the thing he sought; 
And they slashed the plank away with their swords ; 

And, O God ! I fainted not ! 

And the traitor held his torch in the gap. 

All smoking and smouldering ; 
And through the vapor and fire, beneath 

In the dark crypt's narrow ring, 
With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof 

They saw their naked King. 

Half naked he stood, but stood as one 

Who yet could do and dare : 
With the crown, the King was stript away, — 
The Knight was reft of his battle-array, — 

But still the Man was there. 



I JO Latier-Day Ballads, 

From the rout then stepped a villain forth, — 

Sir John Hall was his name ; 
With a knife unsheathed he leaped to the vault 

Beneath the torchlight-flame. 

Of his person and stature was the King 

A man right manly strong, 
And mightily by the shoulder-blades 

His foe to his feet he flung. 

Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas. Hall, 

Sprang down to work his worst ; 
And the King caught the second man by the neck 

And flung him above the first. 

And he smote and trampled them under him : 
And a long month thence they bare 

All black their throats with the grip of his hands 
When the hangman's hand came there. 

And sore he strove to have had their knives, 
But the sharp blades gashed his hands. 

O James ! so armed, thou hadst battled there 
Till help had come of thy bands ; 

And oh ! once more thou hadst held our throne 
And ruled thy Scotish lands ! 

But while the King o'er his foes still raged 
With a heart that nought could tame, 

Another man sprang down to the crypt ; 

And with his sword in his hand hard-gripped, 
There stood Sir Robert Grasme. 



The Kings Tragedy. 171 

(Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart 

Who durst not face his King 
Till the body unarmed was wearied out 

With twofold combating ! 

Ah ! well might the people sing and say, 

As oft ye have heard aright: 
' O Robert Grcsine, O Robert Grcrme, 
Who slew our King, God give thee shame /' 

For he slew him not as a knight.) 

And the naked King turned round at bay. 

But his strength had passed the goal, 
And he could but gasp: 'Mine hour is come; 
But oh, to succor thine own soul's doom, 

Let a priest now shrive my soul ! ' 

And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength 
And said : ' Have I kept my word ? — 

Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave? 

No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have, 
But the shrift of this red sword !' 

With that he smote his King through the breast ; 

And all they three in that pen 
Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there 

Like merciless murderous men. 

Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Graeme, 
Ere the King's last breath was o'er, * 

Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight, 
And would have done no more. 



72 Latter- Day Ballads. 

But a cry came from the troop above : 

' If him thou do not slay, 
The price of his life that thou dost spare 

Thy forfeit life shall pay ! ' 

O God ! what more did I hear or see, 

Or how should I tell the rest ? 
But there at length our King lay slain 

With sixteen wounds in his breast. 

O God ! and now did a bell boom forth, 

And the murderers turned and fled ; — 
Too late, too late, O God,, did it sound ! — 
And I heard the true men mustering round, 
And the cries and the coming tread. 

But ere they came, to the black death-gap 

Somewise did I creep and steal ; 
And lo ! or ever I swooned away, 
Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay 

In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. 

And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard 
Dread things of the days grown old, — 

Even at the last, of true Queen Jane 
May somewhat yet be told, 

And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake 
Dire vengeance manifold. 

'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, 

In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, 
That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid 

With chaunt and requiem-knell. 



The King's Tragedy. 173 

And all with royal wealth of balm 

Was the body purified; 
And none could trace on the brow and lips 

The death that he had died. 

In his robes of state he lay asleep 

With orb and sceptre in hand ; 
And by the crown he wore on his throne 

Was his kingly forehead spanned. 

And, girls, 'twas a sweet sad thing to see 

How the curling golden hair, 
As in the day of the poet's youth, 

From the King's crown clustered there. 

And if all had come to pass in the brain 

That throbbed beneath those curls, 
Then Scots had said in the days to come 
That this their soil was a different home 

And a different Scotland, girls ! 

And the Queen sat by him night and day. 

And oft she knelt in prayer. 
All wan and pale in the widow's veil 

That shrouded her shining hair. 

And I had got good help of my hurt; 

And only to me some sign 
She made ; and save the priests that were there. 

No face would she see but mine. 

And the month of March wore on apace ; 

And now fresh couriers fared 
Still from the country of the Wild Scots 

With news of the traitors snared. 



174 Latter-Day Ballads. 

And still as I told her day by day, 

Her pallor changed to sight, 
And the frost grew to a furnace-flame 

That burnt her visage white. 

And evermore as I brought her word, 

She bent to her dead King James, 
And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath 

She spoke the traitors' names. 

But when the name of Sir Robert Graeme 

Was the one she had to give, 
I ran to hold her up from the floor ; 
For the froth was on her lips, and sore 

I feared that she could not live. 

And the month of March wore nigh to its end, 
And still was the death-pall spread ; 

For she would not bury her slaughtered lord 
Till his slayers all were dead. 

And now of their dooms dread tidings came. 

And of torments fierce and dire ; 
And nought she spake, — she had ceased to speak, 

But her eyes were a soul on fire. 

But M^ien I told her the bitter end 

Of the stern and just award, 
She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times 

She kissed the lips of her lord. 

And then she said, * My King, they are dead ! ' 

And she knelt on the chapel-floor. 
And whispered low with a strange proud smile, 

* James, James, they suffered more ! ' 



The King s Tragedy. ij^ 

Last she stood up to her queenly height, 

But she shook like an autumn leaf, 
As though the fire wherein she burned 
Then left her body, and all were turned 

To winter of life-long grief. 

And ' O James ! ' she said, — ' My James ! ' she said, — 

' Alas for the woful thing, 
That a poet true and a friend of man. 
In desperate days of bale and ban, 

Should needs be born a King ! ' 



iy6 Latter-Day Ballads. 



By Hamilton Aidh 



LOST AND FOUND. 

Some miners were sinking a shaft in Wales 
(I know not where, — but the facts have filled 
A chink in my brain, while other tales 

Have been swept away, as when pearls are spilled, 

One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor;) 

— Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed. 

And men tear in the dark at the earth's heart-core. 
These men were at work, when their axes knocked 
A hole in a passage closed years before. 

A slip in the earth, I suppose, had blocked 
This gallery suddenly up, with a heap 
Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked. 

Till these men picked it, and 'gan to creep 
In on all-fours ; then a loud shout ran 
Round the black roof, ' Here 's a man asleep I ' 

They all pushed forward, and scarce a span 
From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp 
Fell on the upturned face of a man. 

No taint of death, no decaying damp 

Had touched that fair young brow, whereon 

Courage had set its glorious stamp. 



Lost and Found. 177 

Calm as a monarch upon his throne, 
Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear, 
He sat there taking his rest, alone. 

He must have been there for many a year. 
The spirit had fled ; but there was its shrine, 
In clothes of a century old or near! 

The dry and embalming air of the mine 
Had arrested the natural hand of decay, 
Nor faded tlie flesh, nor dimmed a line. 

Who was he, then ? No man could say 
When the passage had suddenly fallen in — 
Its memory, even, was passed away ! 

Awe-struck they stood : then touched the skin, 
And handled the cloth. The flame o' the soul 
Had been blown out, ere its lamp grew thin. 

In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal, . 

They took him up, as a tender lass 

Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole, 

To the outer world of the short warm grass. 
Then up spoke one, ' Let us send for Bess, 
She is seventy-nine, come Martinmas ; 

' Older than any one here, I guess ! 

Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there. 

And remember the chap by his comeliness.' 

So they brought old Bess with her silver hair 
To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay. 
Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. 



178 Latter- Day Ballads, 

And the crowd around them all gave way, 
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh, 
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay. 

Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! . . . 
Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed 
Her withered arms in the summer sky . . . 

' O Willie ! Willie ! my lad ! my lost ! 
The Lord be praised ! after sixty years, 
I see you again ! . . . The tears you cost, 

' O Willie darlin', were bitter tears ! . . . 
They never looked for ye underground, 
They told me a tale to mock my fears ! 

'They said ye were auver the sea, — ye 'd found 
A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain 
How ye 'd a vanished fra sight and sound ! 

' O darlin', a long, long life o' pain 

I ha' lived since then ! . . . And now I 'm old, 

'Seems a'most as if youth were come back again, 

'Seeing ye there wi' your locks o' gold, 
And limbs as straight as ashen beams, . . . 
I a'most forget how the years ha' rolled 

' Between us ! . . . O Willie ! how strange it seems 
To see ye here as I 've seen ye oft, . . . 
Auver and auver again in dreams ! ' 

In broken words like these, with soft 
Low wails she rocked herself. And none 
Of the rough men around her scoffed. 



Lost and Found. 179 

For surely a sight like this the sun 
Had rarely looked upon. Face to face, 
The old dead love and the living one ! 

The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace. 
At the end of threescore years; the quick, 
Puckered and withered, without a trace 

Of its warm girl-beauty ! A wizard's trick 
Bringing the youth and the love that were, 
Back to the eyes of the old and sick ! 

Those bodies were just of one age ; yet there 
Death, clad in youth, had been standing still. 
While Life had been fretting itself threadbare ! 

But the moment was come — (as a moment will 
To all who have loved, and have parted here. 
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill ; 

When, at the top, as their eyes see clear. 

Over the mists in the vale below, 

Mere specks their trials and toils appear, 

Beside the eternal rest they know !) 

Death came to old Bess that night, and gave 

The welcome summons that she should go. 

And now, though the rains and winds may rave, 
Nothing can part them. Deep and wide, 
The miners that evening dug one grave. 

And there, while the summers and winters glide, 
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side ! 



8o Latter-Day Ballads. 



By Lewis Morris. 



AZENOR. 

* Seamen, seamen, tell me true, 
Is there any of your crew 
Who in Armor Town has seen 
Azenor, the kneeling queen ? ' 

' We have seen her oft indeed, 
Kneeling in the self-same place ; 
Brave her heart, though pale her face, 
White her soul, though dark her weed/ 



Of a long-past summer day, 
Envoys came from far away. 
Mailed in silver, clothed with gold, 
On their snorting chargers bold. 

When the warder spied them near. 
To the King he went, and cried, 
' Twelve bold knights come pricking here 
Shall I open to them wide ? ' 

' Let the great gates opened be, 
See the knights are welcomed all ; 
Spread the board and deck the hall; 
We will feast them royally.' 



Azenor. i8] 

' By our Prince's high command, 
Who one day shall be our King, 
We come to ask a precious thing, — 
Azenor your daughter's hand.' 

' Gladly we will grant your prayer : 
Brave the youth, as we have heard. 
Tall is she, milk-white and fair, 
Gentle as a singing bird.' 

Fourteen days high feast they made, 
Fourteen days of dance and song ; 
Till the dawn the harpers played; 
Mirth and joyance all day long. 

* Now, my fair spouse, it is meet 
That we turn us toward our home.' 
' As you will, my love, my sweet ; 
Where you are, there I would come.' 

II. 

When his step-dame saw the bride. 
Well-nigh choked with spleen was she : 

* This pale-faced girl, this lump of pride — 
And shall she be preferred to me ? 

* New things please men best, 't is true. 
And the old are cast aside. 
Natheless, what is old and tried 
Serves far better than the new.' 

Scarce eight months had passed away, 
When she to the Prince would come. 



1 82 Latter-Day Ballads. 

And with subtlety would say, 

' Would you lose both wife and home ? 

' Have a care lest what I tell 
Should befall you ; so 't were best 
Have a care and guard you well, 
'Ware the cuckoo in your nest.' 

' Madam, if the truth you tell. 
Meet reward her crime shall earn, 
First the round tower's straitest cell, 
Then in nine days she shall burn.' 

III. . 

When the old King was aware. 
Bitter tears the greybeard shed. 
Tore in grief his white, white hair, 
Crying, ' Would God that I were dead ! 

And to all the seamen said, 
' Good seamen, pray you tell me true, 
Is there, then, any one of you 
Can tell me if my child be dead '^. ' 

' My liege, as yet alive is she, 
Though burned to-morrow shall she be ; 
But from her prison tower, O King ! 
Morning and eve we hear her sing. 

' Morning and eve, from her fair throat 
Issues the same plaintive note, 
" They are deceived ; I kiss Thy rod : 
Have pity on them, O my God ! " ' 



Azenor. 183 



IV. 



Even as a lamb who gives its life 
All meekly to the cruel knife, 
White-robed she went, her soft feet bare, 
Self-shrouded in her golden hair. 

And as she to her dreadful fate 
Fared on, poor innocent, meek and mild, 
' Grave crime it were,' cried small and great, 
' To slay the mother and the child.' 

All wept sore, both small and great ; 
Only the step-dame smiling sate : 
'Sure 't were no evil deed, but good, 
To kill the viper with her brood.' 

' Quick, good fireman, fan the fire 
Till it leap forth fierce and red ; 
Fan it fierce as my desire : 
She shall burn till she is dead.' 

Vain their efforts, — all in vain, 
Though they fanned and fanned again ; 
The more they blew, the embers gray 
Faded and sank and died away. 

When the judge the portent saw. 
Dazed and sick with fear was he : 
' She is a witch, she flouts the law ; 
Come, let us drown her in the sea.' 



1 84 Latter-Day Ballads. 



What saw you on the sea ? A boat 
Neither by sail nor oarsman sped ; 
And at the helm, to watch it float, 
An angel white with wings outspread ; 

A little boat, far out to sea, 
And with her child a fair ladye, 
Whom at her breast she sheltered well, 
Like a white dove upon a shell. 

She kissed, and clasped, and kissed again 
His little back, his little feet, 
Crooning a soft and tender strain, 
• Da-da, my dear ; da-da, my sweet. 

'Ah, could your father see you, sweet, 
A proud man should he be to-day; 
But we on earth may never meet. 
But he is lost and far away.' 

VI. 

In Armor Town is such affright 
As never castle knew before. 
For at the midmost hour of night 
The wicked step-dame is no more. 

' I see hell open at my side : 
Oh, save me, in God's name, my son ! 
Your spouse was chaste ; 't was I who lied 
Oh, save me, for I am undone ! ' 



A z en or, 185 

Scarce had she checked her lying tongue, 
When from her lips a snake did glide, 
With threatening jaws which hissed and stung, 
And pierced her marrow till she died. 

Eftsoons, to foreign realms the knight 
Went forth, by land and over sea ; 
Seeking in vain his lost delight. 
O'er all the round, round world went he. 

He sought her East, he sought her West, 
Next to the hot South sped he forth, 
Then, after many a fruitless quest, 
He sought her in the gusty North. 

There, by some nameless island vast, 
His anchor o'er the side he cast; 
When by a brooklet's fairy spray 
He spies a little lad at play. 

Fair are his locks, and blue his eyes 
As his lost love's or as the sea ; 
The good knight, looking on them, sighs, 
' Fair child, who may thy father be ? ' 

* Sir, I have none save Him in heaven ; 
Long years ago he went away. 

Ere I was born, and I am seven ; 

My mother mourns him night and day.' 

* Who is thy mother, child, and where ? ' 
' She cleanses linen, white and fair, 

In yon clear stream.' ' Come, child, and we 
Together will thy mother see.' 



1 86 Latter-Day Ballads. 

He took the youngling by the hand, 
And, as they passed the yellow strand, 
The child's swift blood in pulse and arm 
Leapt to his father's and grew warm. 

' Rise up and look, O mother dear ; 
It is my father who is here ; 
My father who was lost is come — 
Oh, bless God for it ! — to his home.' 

They knelt and blessed His holy name, 
Who is so good, and just, and mild. 
Who joins the sire and wife and child; 
And so to Brittany they came. 

And may the blessed Trinity 
Protect all toilers of the sea ! 



TJie Revenge of Hamisk. 187 



By Sidney Lanier. 



THE REVENGE OF HAMISH. 

It was three slim does and a ten-tined buck in the bracken 
lay; 
And all of a sudden the sinister smell of a man, 
Awaft on a wind-shift, wavered and ran 
Down the hillside, and sifted along through the bracken 
and passed that way. 

Then Nan got a-tremble at nostril; she was the daintiest 
doe ; 
In the print of her velvet flank on the velvet fern 
She reared, and rounded her ears in turn. 
Then the buck leapt up, and his head as a king's to a 
crown did go 

Full high in the breeze, and he stood as if Death had the 
form of a deer ; 
And the two slim does long lazily stretching arose, 
For their day-dream slowlier came to a close, 
Till they woke and were still, breath-bound with waiting 
and wonder and fear. 

Then Alan the huntsman sprang over the hillock, the 
hounds shot by. 
The does and the ten-tined buck made a marvellous 
bound, 



i88 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The hounds swept after with never a sound, 
But Alan loud winded his horn in sign that the quarry was 
nigh. 

For at dawn of that day proud Maclean of Lockbury to the 
hunt had waxed wild, 
And he cursed at old Alan till Alan fared off with the 

hounds 
For to drive him the deer to the lower glen-grounds : 
* I will kill a red deer,' quoth Maclean, ' in sight of the wife 
and child.' 

So gayly he paced with his wife and the child to his chosen 
stand ; 
But he hurried tall Hamish the henchman ahead : ' Go 

turn,' — 
Cried Maclean — 'if the deer seek to cross the burn, 
Do thou turn them to me : nor fail, lest thy back be red as 
thy hand.' 

Now hard-fortuned Hamish, half-blown of his breath with 
the height of the hill. 
Was white in the face when the ten-tined buck and the 

does 
Drew leaping to burn-ward ; huskily rose 
His shouts, and his nether lip twitched, and his legs were 
o'er-weak for his will. 

So the deer darted lightly by Hamish, and bounded away 
to the burn. 
But Maclean, never bating his watch, tarried waiting 
below. 



The Revenge of Haniish. 1 89 

Still Hamish hung heavy with fear for to go 
All the space of an hour; then he, went, and his face was 
greenish and stern, 

And his eye sat back in the socket, and shrunken the eye- 
balls shone, 
As withdrawn from a vision of deeds it were shame to see. 
' Now, now, grim henchman, what is 't with thee?' 
Brake Maclean, and his wrath rose red as a beacon the 
wind hath upblown. 

' Three does and a ten-tined buck made out,' spoke Hamish, 
full mild, 
'And I ran for to turn, but my breath it was blown, and 

they passed; 
I was weak, for ye called ere I broke me my fast.' 
Cried Maclean : ' Now a ten-tined buck in the sight of the 
wife and the child 

' I had killed if the gluttonous kern had not wrought me a 
snail's own wrong ! ' 
Then he sounded, and down came kinsmen and clans- 
men all : 
' Ten blows, for ten tine, on his back let fall. 
And reckon no stroke if the blood follow not at the bite of 
thong ! ' 

So Hamish made bare and took him the strokes ; at the 
last he smiled. 
'Now I '11 to the burn,' quoth Maclean, 'for it still may be 



1 90 Latter- Day Ballads. 

If a slimmer-paunched henchman will hurry with me, 
I shall kill me the ten-tined buck for a gift to the wife and 
the child ! ' 

Then the clansmen departed, by this path and that; and 
over the hill 
Sped Maclean with an outward wrath for an inward 

shame ; 
And that place of the lashing full quiet became ; 
And the wife and the child stood sad ; and bloody-backed 
Hamish sat still. 

But look ! red Hamish has risen ; quick about and about 
turns he. 
* There is none betwixt me and the crag-top ! ' he screams 

under breath. 
Then, livid as Lazarus lately from death, 
He snatches the child from the mother, and clambers the 
crag toward the sea. 

Now the mother drops breath ; she is dumb, and her heart 
goes dead for a space. 
Till the motherhood, mistress of death, shrieks, shrieks 

through the glen, 
And that place of the lashing is live with men, 
And Maclean, and the gillie that told him, clash up in a 
desperate race. 

Not a breath's time for asking ; an eye-glance reveals all 
the tale untold. 
They follow mad Hamish afar up the crag toward the sea. 



The Revenge of Hamish. 191 

And the lady cries : * Clansmen, run for a fee ! — 
Yon castle and lands to the two first hands that shall hook 
him and hold 

' Fast Hamish back from the brink ! ' — and ever she flies 
up the steep, 
And the clansmen pant, and they sweat, and they jostle 

and strain. 
But, mother, 't is vain; but, father, 'tis vain ; 
Stern Hamish stands bold on the brink, and dangles the 
child o'er the deep. 

Now a faintness falls on the men that run, and they all 
stand still. 
And the wife prays Hamish as if he were God, on her 

knees. 
Crying : ' Hamish ! O Hamish ! but please, but please 
For to spare him!' and Hamish still dangles the child, 
with a wavering will. 

On a sudden he turns ; with a sea-hawk scream, and a gibe, 
and a song, 
Cries : ' So ; I will spare ye the child if, in sight of ye all, 
Ten blows on Maclean's bare back shall fall, 
And ye reckon no stroke if the blood follow not at the bite 
of the thong ! ' 

Then Maclean he set hardly his tooth to his lip that his 
tooth was red, 
Breathed short for a space, said : ' Nay, but it shall 
never be ! 



192 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Let me hurl off the damnable hound in the sea ! ' 
But the wife : ' Can Hamish go fish us the child from the 
sea, if dead ? 

' Say yea ! — Let them lash jne, Hamish ? ' — ' Nay ! ' — 
'Husband, the lashing will heal; 
But, oh, who will heal me the bonny sweet bairn in his 

grave ? 
Could ye cure me my heart with the death of a knave ? 
Quick! Love ! I will bare thee, so kneel ! ' Then Maclean 
'gan slowly to kneel 

With never a word, till presently downward he jerked to 
the earth. 
Then the henchman — he that smote Hamish — would 

tremble and lag: 
* Strike, hard ! ' quoth Hamish full stern, from the crag ; 
Then he struck him, and ' One ! ' sang Hamish, and danced 
with the child in his mirth. 

And no man spake beside Hamish ; he counted each stroke 
with a song. 
When the last stroke fell, then he moved him a pace 

down the height, 
And he held forth the child in the heartaching sight 
Of the mother, and looked all pitiful grave, as repenting a 
wrong. 

And there as the motherly arms stretched out with the 
thanksgiving prayer — 
And there as the mother crept up with a fearful swift pace, 



The Revenge of Hamish, 193 

Till her finger nigh felt of the bairnie's face — 
In a flash fierce Hamish turned round and lifted the child 
in the air, 

.And sprang with the child in his arms from the horrible 
height in the sea, 
Shrill screeching, 'Revenge!' in the wind-rush; and 

pallid Maclean, 
Age-feeble with anger and impotent pain. 
Crawled up on the crag, and lay flat, and locked hold of 
dead roots of a tree — 

And gazed hungrily o'er, and the blood from his back drip- 
dripped in the brine, 
And a sea-hawk flung down a skeleton fish as he flew. 
And the mother stared white on the waste of the blue. 
And the wind drove a cloud to seaward, and the sun began 
to shine. 



94 Latter- Day Ballads, 



By H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. 

THE BOAT-RACE. 

There 's a living thread that goes winding, winding. 
Tortuous rather, but easy of finding, 

Creep and crawl 

By paling and wall. 
Very much like a dust-dry snake. 
From Hyde Park Corner right out to Mortlake ; 

Crawl and creep 

By level and steep. 
From Putney Bridge back again to Eastcheap, — 

Horse and man, 

Wagon and van, 
Tramping along since the day began, — 
Rollicking, rumbling, and rolling apace. 
With their heads all one way like a shoal of dace ; 

And beauty and grace, 

The lofty and base. 

Silk, satins, and lace, 

And the evil in case, 
Seem within an ace of a general embrace — 
Jog-trotting behind the Lord Mayor with his mace — 

As if the whole place 

Had set its whole face 
Towards the Oxford and Cambridge Race. 



The Boat- Race, i95 

Has any one seen some grand, fleet horse, 
At the starting-post of an Epsom course, 
With nostril spread and chest expanding, 
But like a graven image standing, 
Waiting a touch to start into life 
And spurn the earth in the flying strife ; 
Whilst around, with restless, eddying pace, 
Frolic the froth and foam of the race ? 

So, side by side, 

Like shadows they glide. 
Two streaks of blue just breasting the tide, 
Whilst a thousand oars are glitt'ring wide, 

Flashed in the morning beam,— 
And so, when waked to sudden speed. 
Darts from the throng the flying steed, 
They darted up the stream. 

With a rush and a bound, 

And a surging sound 
From the arches below and the boats around, 
And the background of everything wooden and steel 
That 's driven by oar, sail, paddle, or wheel, 

Striving and tearing. 

And puffing and swearing. 
With the huge live swarm that their decks are bearing, - 
A sound from bridge and river and shore, 
That gathers into a human roar : 
' Cambridge I Cambridge ! ' ' Now, Oxford, now / ' 

Betwixt the crews 

There is n't a pin to choose. 
Not so much as the turn of a 'feather; ' 



196 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The Cambridge eight 

Have muscle and weight, 
But the dark blue blades fall sharp and straight 
As the hammer of Thor on the anvil of fate, 
So wholly they pull together. 

And they pull with a will ! — 
Row, Cambridge, row ! 
They Ve going two lengths to your one, you know, ■ 
The Oxford have got the start — 
Out and in, at a single dash — 
Flash and feather, feather and flash, 
Without a jerk or an effort or splash, — 
It 's a stroke that will break your heart — 
A wonderful stroke ! but a leetle too fast ? 

Forty-four to the minute, at least; 
For five or six years it 's been all your own way, 
But you 've got your work cut out to-day ; 
Give them the Cambridge swing, I say. 
The grand old stroke, with its sweep and sway, 
And send her along ! — never mind the spray — 

It 's a mercy the pace can't last. . . . 
They never can ' stay,' though the Turn is in sight 
Ha, now she lifts ! — row, row ! . . . 
But in spite 
Of the killing pace, and the stroke of might. 
In spite of bone and muscle and height. 
On flies the dark blue like a flash of blue light, 
And the river froths like yeast. . . . 

' Oxford, Oxford ! she wins, she wins ' — 
Well, you 've won ' the toss,' you see, 



The B oat-Race. 197 

Whilst the Cantabs must fetch 
Their boats thro' a stretch 
That 's as lumpy and cross as may be ; 
And the men are too big, and the boats too small. 
For a rushing tide and a racing squall — 
But look ! by the bridge, a haven for all — 
And Cambridge may win if she can ; — 
And the, squall 's gone down, and the froth is past. 
And you '11 find it 's the 'pace that kills ' at last — 

You must/////, do you understand ? 
Put your backs into it — now or never — 
Jam home your feet whilst the clenched oars quiver, 
For over the gold of the gleaming river 
They 're passing you hand over hand : 
And a thousand cheers 
Ring in their ears — 
The muscles stand out on their arms like cords. 

Brows knit and teeth close set, — 
And bone and weight are beginning to tell, 
And the swinging stroke that the Cam knows well 

Will lick you yet . . . 
Cambridge ! Cambridge again ! Bravo — 
vSplendidly pulled ; now. Trinity, now, — 
Now let the oars sweep, — 

Now, whilst the shouts rise, 
And the white foam flies. 
And the stretched boat seems to leap ! 
Stick to it, boys, for the bonny light blue . . . 
And the turquoise silk, dasht with the spray, 
Steals forward now ; 
Rowed, rowed of all ! . . . 
But what ails the crew? 



Latter-Day Ballads, 

What ails the strong arms, unused to wax dull ? 
And the light boat trails like a wounded gull. 

Swamped! swamped, by heaven ! 

Beat in mid-fight, 

With the goal in sight, 
As they were gaining fast ; 
Row, Cambridge, row ! 
Swamped, while the great crowd roared, 
Wash over wash it poured 

Inch by inch; 

Does a man flinch ? 

Row, Cambridge, row ! 
Stick to it to the last, 
Over the brown waves' crest 
Only the oarsmen's breast. 

Yet, Cambridge, row; 
One gallant stroke, pulled all altogether — 
One more ! . . . and a long flash in the dark river^ 
And the dark blue shoots past. 



A Ballad of Metz. 199 



By Louise Imogen Guimy. 



A BALLAD OF METZ.^ 



Leon went to the wars, 
True soul without a stain ; 

First at the trumpet-call, 
Thy son, Lorraine ! 

Never a mighty host 

Thrilled so with one desire ; 
Never a past Crusade 

Lit nobler fire. 

And he, among the rest. 

Smote foeman in the van, — 

No braver blood than his 
Since time began. 

And mild and fond was he, 
And sensitive as a leaf, — 

Just Heaven ! that he was this, 
Is half my grief! 



200 Latter-Day Ballads. 

We followed where the last 
Detachment led away, 

At Metz, an evil-starred 
And bitter day. 

Some of us had been hurt 
In the first hot assault, 

Yet wills were slackened not. 
Nor feet at fault. 

We hurried on to the front ; 

Our banners were soiled and rent 
Grim riflemen, gallants all, 

Our captain sent. 

A Prussian lay by a tree 
Rigid as ice, and pale. 

And sheltered out of the reach 
Of battle-hail. 

His cheek was hollow and white, 
Parched was his purple lip; 

Tho' bullets had fastened on 
Their leaden grip, 

Tho' ever he gasped and called. 
Called faintly from the rear, 

What of it ? And all in scorn 
I closed mine ear. 

The very colors he wore. 

They burnt and bruised my sight ; 

The greater his anguish, so 
Was my delight. 



A Ballad of Metz. 201 

We laughed a savage laugh, 

Who loved our land too well, 
Giving its enemies hate 

Unspeakable : 

But Leon, kind heart, poor heart, 

Clutched me round the arm ; 
' He faints for water ! ' he said, 

' It were no harm 

' To soothe a wounded man 

Already on death's rack.' 
He seized his brimming gourd, 

And hurried back. 

The foeman grasped it quick 
With wild eyes, 'neath whose lid 

A coiled and viper-like look 
Glittered and hid. 

He raised his shattered frame 

Up from the grassy ground, 
And drank with the loud, mad haste 

Of a thirsty hound. 

Leon knelt by his side, 

One hand beneath his head ; 
Not kinder the water than 

The words he said. 

He rose and left him so, 

Stretched on the grassy plot. 
The viper-like flame in his eyes 

Alas ! forgot. 



202 Latter-Day Ballads. 

L^on with easy gait 

Strode on; he bared his hair, 

Swinging his army cap, 
Humming an air. 

Just as he neared the troops, 
Over there by the stream — 

Good God ! a sudden snap, 
And a lurid gleam. 

I wrenched my bandaged arm 
With the horror of the start : 

Leon was low at my feet, 
Shot thro' the heart. 

Do you think an angel told 

Whose hand the deed had done ? 

To the Prussian we dashed back, 
Mute, every one. 

Do you think we stopped to curse. 
Or wailing feebly, stood ? 

Do you think we spared who shed 
A friend's sweet blood 1 

Ha ! vengeance on the fiend : 
We smote him as if hired ; 

I most of them, and more 
When they had tired. 

I saw the deep eye lose 
Its dastard, steely blue : 

I saw the traitVous breast 
Pierced thro' and thro*. 



A Ballad of Metz, 203 

His musket, smoking yet, 

Unhanded, lay beside ; 
Three times three thousand deaths 

That Prussian died. 

And he, my brother, L(5on, 

Lies too upon the plain : 
Oh, teach no more Christ's mercy, 

Thy sons, Lorraine ! 



204 Latter- Day Ballads. 



By Agnes Maiy Frances Robinson. 



JUTZI SCHULTHEISS.^ 

Toss, 1300. 

The gift of God was mine ; I lost 
For aye the gift of Pentecost. 

I never knew why God bestowed 

On me the vision and the load ; 

But what He wills I have no will 

To question, blindly following still 

The hand that even from my birth 

Hath shown me Heaven, forbidding Earth. 

I was a child when first I drew 

In sight of God ; a subtle, new, 

Faint happiness had drawn about 

My soul, and shut the whole earth out. 

Yet I was sick. I lay in bed. 

So weak I could not lift my head, — 

So weak, and yet so quite at rest, 

Pillowed upon my Saviour's breast 

It seemed. Then suddenly I felt 

Great wings encompass me, and dwelt 

Silent awhile in awe and fear. 

While swiftly nearer and more near 

Descended God. A stream of white, 



Jiitzi Schultheiss. 205 

Shining, intolerable light 

Blinded my eyes, and all grew dim. 

Then stilled in trance I dwelt with Him 

A little while in perfect peace, 

Till, fold by fold, the dark withdrew, 

I felt the heavenly blessing cease. 

And angels swiftly bear me through 

The dizzy air in lightning flight. 

Till here I woke and it was night. 

My mother wept beside my bed, 

My brothers prayed; for I was dead. 

Then, when my soul was given back, 

I cried, as wretches on the rack 

Cry in the last quick wrench of pain, 

And breathed, and looked, and lived again. 

Ah me, what tears of joy there fell ! 

How they all cried, ' A miracle ! ' 

And kissed me, given back to earth, 

The dearer for that second birth 

To her who bore me first. Ah me, 

How glad we were ! Then Anthony, 

My brother, spoke. ' What God has given,' 

He said, ' let us restore to Heaven.' 

And as he spoke, beneath the rod 

I bowed, and gave myself to God. 

Not suddenly the gift returned. 
Alas ! methinks too much I yearned 
For the old earthly joys, the home 
That I had left forevermore ; 
The garden with its herbs, and store 



!06 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Of hives filled full of honeycomb ; 

The lambs and calves that chiefly were, 

Of all we had, my special care ; 

My brothers, too, all left behind, — 

All, for some other girl to find ; 

And she who loves me everywhere, 

My mother, whom I often kissed 

In absence with vain lips that missed 

My mother more than God above. 

Much bound was I with earthly love. 

So slight my strength, I never could 

Have freed myself from servitude. 

But He who loves us saw my pain. 

And with one blow struck free my chain. 

Weeping I knelt within the gloom, 

One evening, in my convent room. 

Trying with all my heart to pray, 

And weeping that my thoughts would stray ; 

When suddenly again I felt 

The unearthly light and rest ; I dwelt 

Rapt in mid-heaven the whole night through. 

And through my cell the angels flew, 

The angels sang, the angels shone. 

The Saints in glory, one by one, 

Floated to God ; and under Him 

Circled the shining Seraphim. 

Now from that day my heart was free, 
And I was God's ; then gradually 
The convent learned the solemn truth, 
And they were glad because my youth 



Jiitzi Schultheiss, 207 

Was pleasing in the sight of Him 

Who filled my spirit to the brim. 

They wrote my visions down, and made 

A treasure of the words I said. 

And far and wide the news was spread 

That I by God was visited. 

Then many sought our convent's door, 

And lands and dower began to pour 

With blessing on our house ; for thus 

Men praised the Lord who favored us. 

For seven long years the gift was mine : 
I often saw the angels shine 
Suddenly down the cloister's dark 
Deserted length at night ; and oft 
At the high mass I seemed to mark 
A stranger music, high and soft, 
That swam about the heavenly Cup, 
And caught our ruder voices up ; 
And often, nay, indeed at will, 
I would lie back and let the still 
Cold trance creep over me, and see 
Mary and all the Saints flash by. 
Till only God was left and I. 

The gift of God was mine ; I lost 
For aye the gift of Pentecost. 
Now sometimes in the summer-time 
I stood beneath the orchard trees. 
And in their boughs I heard the breeze 
Keep on a low continuing rhyme, 



208 Latter-Day Ballads. 

And nothing else was heard beside 

The little birds that sang and cried 

Their Latin to the praise of God. 

And underfoot new grass I trod, 

And overhead the light was green, 

And all the boughs were starred and gay 

With apple-blossoms in between 

The fresh young leaves as sweet as they. 

And as I looked upon the sun, 

Who made these fair things every one 

To sprout and sing and wax so strong, 

My whole heart turned into a song. 

' For, God,' I thought, ' this sun art Thou, 

And Thou art in the orchard bough, 

And in the grass whereon I tread, 

And in the bif-d-song overhead. 

And in my soul and limbs and voice. 

And in my heart which must rejoice — 

God I ' And my song stopped weak and dazed ; 

I seemed upon the very verge 

Of some great brink, wherefrom amazed 

My soul shrank back, lest should emerge 

Thence — Nay, what then ? What should I fear, 

I to whom God was known and dear .'* 

Once so possessed with God, I stood 
In prayer within the orchard wood, 
When some one softly called my name. 
And shattered all my happy mood. 
Towards me an ancient Sister came, 
' Quick, Jiitzi, to the hall ! ' she cried ; 



Jutzi Schultheiss, 209 

And swiftly after her I hied, 

And swiftly reached the convent hall, 

Now full of struggle and loud with brawl. 

Close to the door aghast I stayed, 

Too much indignant and afraid 

To ask who wrought this blasphemy. 

Then the old nun crept nearer me, 

And whispered how some knights to-day. 

Riding to Ziirich's tourney-fray, 

Had craved our shelter and repast. 

And how we made the postern fast, 

Because they were so rough a crew, 

Yet gave them food and rest enew 

In the great barn outside the gate; 

And how they feasted long and late 

Till, drunk, they stormed the postern door, 

And sacked the buttery for more. 

Nor this the end ; for having done, 

One shouted ' Nassau ; ' straightway one 

' Hapsburg.' The battle was begun. 

She looked at me afraid and faint, 
With eyes that mutely begged for aid ; 
For I was safe and I a saint, 
She thought, who was a frightened maid ; 
And through the clamor and the din 
I heard her say, ' They can but sin, 
Having not God within their heart ; 
But we, who have the better part, 
Must pray for them to Christ above, 
14 



210 Latter-Day Ballads. 

That in the greatness of His love 

He pardon them their sins to-day.' 

And then she turned her eyes away. 

But I looked straight before me where 

The unseemly blows and clamors were, 

And cold my heart grew, stiff and cold, 

For I had prayed so much of old, 

So vainly for these knights-at-arms, 

Who filled the country with alarms — 

Too often had I prayed in vain, 

Too often put myself in pain 

For these irreverent, brawling, rough. 

And godless knights — I had prayed enough ! 

' Let God,' I cried, ' do all He please ; 
I pray no more for such as these.' 
Then swift I turned and fled, as though 
I fled from sin, and strife, and woe. 
Who fled from God, and from His grace. 
Nor stayed I till I reached the place 
Where I had prayed an hour ago. 

I stood again beneath the shade 

The flowering apple-orchard made; 

The grass was still as tall and green 

And fresh as ever it had been. 

I heard the little rabbits rush 

As swiftly through the wood ; the thrush 

Was singing still the self-same song. 

Yet something there was changed and wrong. 

Or through the grass or through my heart 



yutzi Schultheiss. 2 1 1 

Some deadly thing had passed athwart, 
And left behind a bhghting track ; 
For the old peace comes never back. 

God knows how I am humbled, how 

There is in all the convent now 

No novice half so weak and poor 

In all esteem as I ; the door 

I keep, and wait on passers-by. 

And lead the cattle out to browse. 

And wash the beggars' feet; even I, 

Who was the glory of our house. 

Yet dares my soul rejoice, because 

Though I have failed, though I have sinned, 

Not less eternal are the laws 

Of God, no less the sun and wind 

Declare His glory than before, 

Though I am fallen, and faint, and poor. 

Nay, should I fall to very Hell, 

Yet am I not so miserable 

As heathen are, who know not Him 

Who makes all other glories dim. 

O God, believed in still though lost, - 

Yet fill me with Thy Holy Ghost — 

Let but the vision fill mine eye 

An instant ere the tear be dry ; 

Or, if Thou wilt, keep hid and far, 

Yet art Thou still the secret star 

To which my soul sets all her tides, — 

My soul, that recks of nought besides. 

Have I not found Thee in the fire 



212 Lattei'-Day Ballads. 

Of sunset's purple afterglow? 

Have I not found Thee in the throe 

Of anguished hearts that bleed and tire, — 

God, once so plain to see and hear. 

Now never answering any tear? 

O God, a guest within my house 

Thou wert, my love Thou wert, my spouse ; 

Yet never known so well as now 

When the ash whitens on my brow, 

And cinders on my head are tossed, 

Because the gift I had I lost. 



Sister Mary of the Plague. 2 1 3 

By Eugene Lee- Hamilton. 
SISTER MARY OF THE PLAGUE. 



In her work there is no flagging, 

And her slight frame seems of steel ; 
And her face and eyes and motions, 
Tired by countless nights of watching, 
Nor fatigue nor pain reveal. 

Yet the Sisters say she eats not, 
Spurning food as ne'er did saint; 

And they murmur, ' She is nourished 

By a miracle of Heaven ; 

God allows not she should faint.' 

Through the darkened wards she passes 

On her round from bed to bed ; 
And the sick who wait her commg 
Cease their groaning, smiling faintly 
As they hear her light quick tread. 

Through the gabled lanes she hurries ; 

And the ribald men-at-arms 
Hush their mirth, and, stepping backward, 
Let her pass to soothe some death-bed. 

Safe from insults and alarms ; 



214 Latter- Day Ballads, 

And the priests and monks and townsfolk 

Whom she passes greet her sight 
With a strange respectful pleasure, 
As she nears in dark blue flannel 
And huge cap of spotless white. 

Oh, the busy Flemish City 

Knows its Sister Mary well; 
And the very children show her 
To the stranger as she passes, 
And her story all can tell : 

How she won a lasting glory, 

Cleaving to the dread bedside 
When the Plague with livid pinions 
Lighted on the crowded alleys. 
And all others fled or died. 

How alone she made men listen 
In their fear, and do her will; 

Making help and making order 

When the customary rulers 

Trembled hopeless, and stood still. 

How she had the corpses buried 

When they choked canal and street; 
When alone the shackled convicts, 
Goaded on with pike and halberd, 
Cared to near with quaking feet. 



Sister Mary of the Plague. 2 1 5 

But those days of fear are over ; 

And the pure canal reflects 
Barges decked with pots of flowers 
And long rows of tile-faced gables, 

Which no breeze of death infects. 

And once more the city prospers 
Through the cunning of its guilds ; 

While the restless shuttles clatter, 

And in peace the busy Fleming 

Weaves and tans and brews and builds ; 

And the bearded Spanish troopers, 

Sitting idly in the shade. 
Toss their dice with oath and rattle, 
Or crack jokes with girls that pass them, 

Laughing-eyed and unafraid. 



II. 



Sister Mary, Sister Mary, 

In thy soul there is some change : 
For thy face the while thou watchest 
By a pale young Spanish soldier 

Works with struggle strong and strange. 

Thou hast watched a hundred death-beds, 

Ever calm, without dismay ; 
Fighting like a steady fighter 
While the shade of Death pressed onward 

Night on night and day on day ; 



2i6 Latter- Day Ballads. 

And when Death had proved the stronger, 
Thou wouldst heave one sigh at most, 

And then turn to some new moaner, 

Ready to resume the battle, 
Just as steady at thy post. 

Now thy soul is filled with anguish 

Strange and wild, thou know'st not why ; 
While a voice unknown and inward 
Seems to whisper, far and faintly, 
' If he dies, thou too wilt die.' 

Many months has he been lying 

In thy ward, and rises not; 
Youth and strength avail him nothing; 
Growing daily whiter, whiter ; 

Dying of men know not what. 

And he murmurs : ' Sister Mary, 

Now the end is nearing fast; 
Thou hast nursed me like God's Angel 
But the hand of God is on me. 
And thy care must end at last. 

' I have few, few days remaining ; 

Now I scarce can draw my breath ; 
See my hand : no blood is in it ; 
And I feel like one who slowly, 

Slowly, slowly bleeds to death.' 



Sister Mary of the Plagiie, 2 1 7 

And his worn and heavy eyelids 

Close again as if in sleep ; 
While thou lookest at his features 
With a long and searching anguish 

In thy eyes — that dare not weep. 

Sister Mary, Sister Mary, 

Watch him closer, closer still ! 
There be things within the boundless 
Realm of Horror, unsuspected, — 
Things that slowly, slowly kill ! 

In his face there is no color, 

And his hand is ivory-white; 
But upon his throat is something 
Like a small red stain or puncture, 

Something like a leech's bite. 

Sister Mary, Sister Mary, 

Dost thou see that small red stain? 
Hast thou never noticed something 
Like it on the throats of others 

Whom thy care has nursed in vain 1 

Have no rumors reached thee, Sister, 
Of a Thing that haunts these wards 

When the scanty sleep thou takest 

Cheats the sick of the protection 
Which thy vigilance affords ? 



2i8 Latter-Day Ballads. 

When, at night, the ward is silent. 

And the night-lamp's dimness hides, 
And the nurse on duty slumbers 
In her chair with measured breathing. 
Then it glides, and glides, and glides, 

Like a woman's form, new risen 

From the grave with soundless feet, 
Clad in something which the shadows 
Of the night-lamp render doubtful 
Whether robe or winding-sheet. 

And its eyes seem fixed and sightless. 

Like the eyeballs of the dead ; 
But it gropes not, and moves onward 
Sure and silent, seeking something 
In the ward, from bed to bed. 

And if any, lying sleepless. 

Sees it, he becomes as stone ; 
Terror glues his lips together. 
While his eyes are forced to follow 
All its movements, one by one. 

And he sees it stop, and hover 

Round a bed, with wavering will, 
Like a bat which, ere it settles, 
Flits in circles ever smaller, 
Nearer, nearer, nearer still 



Sister Mary of the Plague. 2 1 9 

Then it bends across the sleeper 

Restless in the sultry night, 
And begins to fan him gently 
With its garment, till his slumber 

Groweth deep, and dreamless quite ; 

And its corpse-like face unstiffens 

And its dead eyes seem to gloat 
As, approaching and approaching, 
It applies its mouth of horror 

Slowly, firmly, to his throat. 

Sister Mary, Sister Mary, 

Has no rumor told thee this ? 
What if he whose life thou lovest 
Like thine own, and more, were dying 

Of that long terrific kiss ? 



III. 

From the Hospital's arched window. 

Open to the summer air. 
You can see the monks in couples 
All returning home at sunset 

Through the old cathedral square. 

On the steps of the cathedral, 
In the weak declining sun 

Sit the beggars and the cripples ; 

While faint gusts of organ-rolling 
Tell that vespers have begun. 



220 Lattcr-Day Ballads. 

Slowly creeps the tide of shadow 
Up the steps of sculptured front, 

Driving back the yellow sunshine 

On each pinnacle and buttress 

Which the twilight soon makes blunt. 

Slowly evening grasps the city, 

And the square grows still and lone ; 
No one passes save, it may be. 
Up the steps and through the portal, 
Some stray monk or tottering crone. 

In this room, which seems the study 

Of the Hospital's chief leech. 
There is no one ; but the twilight 
Makes all objects seem mysterious, 
Like a conscious watcher each. 

Here the snakes whose venom healeth 

Stand in jars in hideous file ; 
While the skulls that crown the book-shelves 
Seem to grin ; and from the ceiling 

Hangs the huge stuffed crocodile. 

Here be kept the drugs and cordials 
Which the Jew from Syria brings. 

And perchance drugs yet more precious, 

Melted topaz, pounded ruby, 
Such as save the lives of kinjrs. 



Sister Mary of the Plague. 2 2 i 

All is silent in the study ; 

But the door-hinge creaks anon, 
And a woman enters softly 
Seeking something that seems hidden, — 

One unnaturally wan. 

What she seeks is not in phials 

Nor in jars, but in a book ; 
And she mutters as she searches 
Through the book-shelves with a kind of 

Brooding hurry in her look ; 

And she finds the book, and takes it 

To the window for more light ; 
And she reads a passage slowly, 
With constrained and hissing breathing, 

And dark brow contracted tight. 

* Most ofihe7n* it says, ' ai'e corpses 

That have lain beneath the ?noon^ 
And that quit their graves at midfiight^ 
Prowling rou?id to prey on sleepers ; 

But the daybreak scares them soon. 

' Btit the worsts called soulless bodies^ 
Plague the world but ?iow and then ; 

They have died in some great sickness; 

But reviving i7i the 7noonbeams 
Rise once more and mix with men. 



222 Latter-Day Ballads, 

' And they act and feel like others^ 
Never giiessing they be dead^ 

Com77ion food of men they love not; 

But at Jiight^ impelled by hunger^ 
In their sleep they quit their bed; 

And they fasten on some sleeper, 

Fee di fig oft his living blood; 
Who, when life has left his body, 
Must in turn arise, and, prowling, 
Seek the like accursed food.' 

And the book slips from her fingers, 
And she casts her down to pray; 
But convulsions seize and twist her, 
And delirious ramblings mingle 
With the prayers she tries to say. 

In her mouth there is a saltness. 
On her lips there is a stain ; 

In her soul there is a horror ; 

In her vitals there is something 
More like raging thirst than pain ; 

And she cries, 'O God, I knew it: 

Have I not at dead of night. 
Waking up, looked round and found me 
On the ledge of roofs and windows 
In my shift, and shrunk with fright? 



Sister Mary of the Plague, 223 

'Have I not, O God of mercy, 

Passed by shambles in the street, 
And stopped short in monstrous craving 
For the crimson blood that trickled 

In the gutter at my feet ? 

' Did I not, at last Communion, 

Cough the Holy Wafer out ? 
Blood I suck, but Christ's blood chokes me. 
O my God, my God, vouchsafe me 

Some strong light in this great doubt ! ' 

And she sinketh crushed and prostrate 

In the twilight on the floor, 
While the darkness grows around her. 
And her quick and labored breathing 

Grows convulsive more and more. 



IV. 



Sister Mary, all is quiet 

In thy wards, and midnight nears 
Seek the scanty rest thou needest ; 
Seek the scanty rest thou grudgest ; 

All is hushed and no one fears. 

But, though midnight, Sister Mary 

Thinks it yet not time to go ; 
And the night-lamps shining dimly 
Show her vaguely in the shadow 
Moving softly to and fro. 



224 Latter-Day Ballads. 

What is it that she is doing, 

Flitting round one sleeper's bed, — 
Is she sprinkling something round it. 
Something white as wheaten flour, 
And on which she will not tread ? 



And at last the work is over. 

And she goeth to her rest ; 
And she sleeps at once, exhausted 
Bylong labor, and, it may be. 

By strong struggles in her breast. 

Nothing breaks upon the stillness 

Of the night, except, afar. 
Some faint shouts of ending revel, 
Or of brawling, in the quarters 

Where the Spanish soldiers are. 

Time wades slowly through the darkness 

Till at last it reaches day, 
And the city's many steeples, 
Buried in the starless heaven. 

Grow distinct in sunless grey. 

And the light wakes Sister Mary, 

And she dresses in strange haste. 
Giving God no prayer, and leaving 
On her bed the beads and crosses 
That should dangle from her waist. 



Sister Mary of the Plague. 225 

And with unheard steps she hurries 
Through the ward where all sleep on, 

To the bed in which is lying 

He who day by day is growing 
More inexorably wan. 



All around the bed is sprinkled 

Something white, like thin fresh snow, 

Where a naked foot has printed 

In the night a many footprints, 
Sharp and clear from heel to toe. 

Sister Mary, Sister Mary, 

Dost thou know thy own small foot ? 
Would it fit these marks which make thee 
Turn more pale than thy own paleness 

If upon them it were put ? 

And the dying youth smiles faintly 
Pleasure's last accorded smile ; 

And he murmurs, as he hears her, 

' Sister Mary, I am better ; 
Let me hold thy hand awhile ; 

' Sister Mary, I would tell thee 

Fain one thing before I die ; 
For a dying man may utter 
What another must keep hidden 

In the fastness of a sigh. 



226 Latter- Day Ballads. 

'Sister Mary, I have loved thee — 

Is it sin to tell thee this ? 
And I dreamt — O God, be lenient 
If 'tis sin — that thou didst give me 
On the throat a long, long kiss.' 



Ballad, 227 

By May Kendall. 

BALLAD. 

He said : ' The shadows darken down, 

The night is near at hand. 
Now who 's the friend will follow me 

Into the sunless land ? 

' For I have vassals leal and true, 

And I have comrades kind, 
And wheresoe'er my soul shall speed, 

They will not stay behind.' 

He sought the brother young and blithe 

Who bore his spear and shield : 
* In the long chase you 've followed me, 

And in the battle-field. 

' Few vows you make; but true 's your heart, 

And you with me will win.' 
He said: ' God speed you, brother mine, 

But I am next of kin.' 

He sought the friar, the grey old priest 

Who loved his father's board. 
The friar he turned him to the east 

And reverently adored. 



2 28 Lattei'-Day Ballads. 

He said : ' A godless name you bear, 
A godless life you 've led, 

And whoso wins along with you, 
His spirit shall have dread. 

' Oh, hasten, get your guilty soul 
From every burden shriven ; 

Yet you are bound for flame and dole, 
But I am bound for heaven ! ' 

He sought the lady bright and proud, 
Who sate at his right hand : 

' Make haste, O Love, to follow me 
Into the sunless land.' 

She said: 'And pass you in your prime? 

Heaven give me days of cheer! 
And keep me from the sunless clime 

Many and many a year.' 

All heavily the sun sank down 
Among black clouds of fate. 

There came a woman fair and wan 
Unto the castle gate. 

Through gazing vassals, idle serfs, 

So silently she sped ! 
The winding staircase echoed not 

Unto her light, light tread. 

His lady eyed her scornfully. 

vShe stood at his right hand ; 
She said: 'And I will follow you 

Into the sunless land. 



Ballad. 229 



'There is no expiation, none. 

A bitter load I bore : 
Now I shall love you nevermore, 

Never and nevermore. 

' There is no touch or tone of yours 
Can make the old love wake.' 

She said : ' But I will follow you, 
Even for the old love's sake.' 

Oh, he has kissed her on the brow, 
He took her by the hand : 

Into the sunless land they went, 
Into the starless land. 



230 Latter- Day Ballads. 

By George Meredith. 

THE YOUNG PRINCESS. 

A BALLAD OF OLD LAWS OF LOVE. 



When the South sang like a nightingale 

Above a bower in May, 
The training of Love's vine of flame 
Was writ in laws, for lord and dame 

To say their yea and nay. 

When the South sang like a nightingale 

Across the flowering night, 
And lord and dame held gentle sport, 
There came a young princess to Court, 

A frost of beauty white. 

The South sang like a nightingale 

To thaw her glittering dream : 
No vine of Love her bosom gave, 
She drank no vine of Love, but grave 

She held them to Love's theme. 

The South grew all a nightingale 

Beneath a moon unmoved : 
Like the banner of war she led them on ; 
She left them to die, like the light that has gone 

From wine-cups over proved. 



The Young Princess. 23 

When the South was a fervid nightingale, 

And she a chilling moon, 
'T was a pity to see on the garden swards, 
Against Love's laws, those rival lords 

As willow-wands lie strewn. 

The South had throat of a nightingale 

For her, the young princess : 
She gave no vine of Love to rear, 
Love's wine drank not, yet bent her ear 

To themes of Love no less. 



II. 

The lords of the Court they sighed heart-sick ; 

Heart-free Lord Dusiote laughed : 
' I prize her no more than a fling o' the dice. 
But, or shame to my manhood, a lady of ice, 

We master her by craft ! ' 

Heart-sick the lords of joyance yawned ; 

Lord Dusiote laughed heart-free : 
' I count her as much as a crack o' my thumb, 
But, or shame of my manhood, to me she shall come 

Like the bird to roost in the tree ! ' 

At dead of night, when the palace-guard 

Had passed the measured rounds. 
The young princess awoke to feel 
A shudder of blood at the crackle of steel 

Within the garden-bounds. 



232 Latter- Day Ballads. 

It ceased, and she thought of whom was need, 

The friar or the leech ; 
When lo ! stood her tire-woman breathless by : 
' Lord Dusiote, Madam, to death is nigh. 

Of you he would have speech. 

' He prays you of your gentleness 

To light him to his dark end.' 
The princess rose, and forth she went, 
For charity was her intent, 

Devoutly to befriend. 

Lord Dusiote hung on his good squire's arm, 

The priest beside him knelt: 
A weeping handkerchief was pressed, 
To stay the red flood at his breast, 

And bid cold ladies melt. 

' O lady, though you are ice to men. 

All pure to heaven as light 
Within the dew within the flower, 
Of you 't is whispered that love has power 

When secret is the night. 

' I have silenced the slanderers, peace to their souls ! 

Save one was too cunning for me. 
I die, whose love is late avowed. 
He lives, who boasts the lily has bowed 

To the oath of a bended knee.' 



The Youno; Princess, 233 



Lord Dusiote drew breath with pain, 
And she with pain drew breath : 

On him she looked, on his hke above; 

She flew in the folds of a marvel of love, 
Revealed to pass to death. 

' You are dying, O great-hearted lord, 

You are dying for me,' she cried; 
' Oh, take my hand, oh, take my kiss. 
And take of your right for love like this 
The vow that plights me bride.' 

She bade the priest recite his words 
While hand in hand were they. 

Lord Dusiote's soul to waft to bliss ; 

He had her hand, her vow, her kiss, 
And his body was borne away. 



III. 

Lord Dusiote sprang from priest and squire ; 

He gazed at her lighted room : 
The laughter in his heart grew slack; 
He knew not the force that pushed him back 

From her and the morn in bloom. 

Like a drowned man's length on the strong flood-tide^ 

Like the shade of a bird in the sun, 
He fled from his lady whom he might claim 
As ghost, and who made the daybeams flame 

To scare what he had done. 



234 Latter- Day Ballads. 

There was grief at Court for one so gay, 

Though he was a lord less keen 
For training the vine than at vintage-press ; 
But in her soul the young princess 

Believed that love had been. 

Lord Dusiote fled the Court and land, 

He crossed the woful seas. 
Till his traitorous doing seemed clearer to burn, 
And the lady beloved drew his heart for return. 

Like the banner of war in the breeze. 

He neared the palace, he spied the Court, 

And music he heard, and they told 
Of foreign lords arrived to bring 
The nuptial gifts of a bridegroom king 
To the princess grave and cold. 

The. masque and dance were cloud on wave, 

And down the masque and the dance 
Lord Dusiote stepped from dame to dame, 
And to the young princess he came, 
With a bow and a burning glance. 



* Do you take a new husband to-morrow, lady 1 ' 

She shrank as at prick of steel. 
' Must the first yield place to the second ? ' he sighed. 
Her eyes were like the grave that is wide 

For the corpse from head to heel. 



The Young Princess, 235 

' My lady, my love, that little hand 

Has mine ringed fast in plight : 
I bear for your lips a lawful thirst, 
And as justly the second should follow the first, 

I come to your door this night.' 

• If a ghost should come a ghost will go : ' 

No more the lady said, 
Save that ever when he in wrath began 
To swear by the faith of a living man, 

She answered him, ' You are dead.* 



IV. 

The soft night-wind went laden to death 
With smell of the orange in flower; 

The light leaves prattled to neighbor ears ; 

The bird of the passion sang over his tears ; 
The night waned hour by hour. 

Sang loud, sang low the rapturous bird 

Till the yellow hour was nigh, 
Behind the folds of a darker cloud : 
He chuckled, he sobbed, alow, aloud, — 

The voice between earth and sky. 

' Oh, will you, nill you, women are weak ; 

The proudest are yielding mates 
For a forward foot and a tongue of fire : ' 
So thought Lord Dusiote's trusty squire, 

At watch by the palace-gates. 



236 Latter- Day Ballads. 

The song of the bird was wine in his blood, 

And woman the odorous bloom ; 
His master's great adventure stirred 
Within him to mingle the bloom and bird, 
And morn ere its coming illume. 

Beside him strangely a piece of the dark 

Had moved, and the undertones 
Of a priest in prayer, like a cavernous wave. 
He heard, as were there a soul to save 
For urgency now in the groans. 

No priest was hired for the play this night : 

And the squire tossed head like a deer 
At sniff of the tainted wind ; he gazed 
Where cresset-lamps in a door were raised 
Belike on a passing bier. 

All cloaked and masked, with naked blades, 

That flashed of a judgment done. 
The lords of the Court, from the palace-door. 
Came issuing silently, bearers four, 
And flat on their shoulders one. 

They marched the body to squire and priest. 

They lowered it sad to earth : 
The priest they gave the burial dole, 
Bade wrestle hourly for his soul, 

Who was a lord of worth. 



The Young Princess. 237 

One said, ' Farewell to a gallant knight ! ' 

And one, ' But a restless ghost ! 
'T is a year and a day since in this place 
He died, sped high by a lady of grace 

To join the blissful host. 

' Not vainly on us she charged her cause, 

The lady whom we revere 
For faith in the mask of a love untrue 
To the Love we honor, the Love her due, 

The Love we have vowed to rear. 

' A trap for the sweet tooth, lures for the light, 

For the fortress defiant a mine : 
Right well ! But not in the South, princess, 
Shall the lady snared of her nobleness 

Ever shamed or -a captive pine.' 

When the South had voice of a nightingale 

Above a Maying bower, 
On the heights of Love walked radiant peers ; 
The bird of the passion sang over his tears 

To the breeze and the orange-flower. 



238 Latter-Day Ballads. 



By Sir Edwifi Arnold. 



*A RAJPUT NURSE.' 

' Whose tomb have they builded, Vittoo, under this tama- 
rind-tree, 

With its door of the rose-veined marble, and white dome 
stately to see, -^ 

Was he holy Brahman, or Yogi, or Chief of the Rajput line, 

Whose urn rests here by the river, in the shade of the 
beautiful shrine ? ' 

• May it please you,' quoth Vittoo, salaaming, ' Protector of 

all the poor ! 
It was not for holy Brahman they carved that delicate door ; 
Nor for Yogi, nor Rajput Rana, built they this gem of our 

land; 
But to tell of a Rajput woman, as long as the stones should 

stand. 

'Her name was Moti, the pearl-name; 'twas far in the 

ancient times ; 
But her moon-like face and her teeth of pearls are sung of 

still in our rhymes ; 
And because she was young, and comely, and of good 

repute, and had laid 
A babe in the arms of her husband,^ the Palace-Nurse she 

was made. 

1 A Hindu father acknowledges paternity by receiving in his arms a 
new-born child. 



M Rajput Nurse: 239 

' For the sweet chief queen of the Rana in Jondhpore city 

had died, 
Leavincr a motherless infant, the heir to that race of pride : 
The heir of the peacock-banner, of the five-colored flag, 

of the throne _ 

Which traces its record of glory from days when it ruled 

alone ; 

' From times when, forth from the sunlight,^ the first of 

our kings came down 
And had the earth for his footstool, and wore the stars for 

his crown, 
As all good Rajpats have told us ; so Moti was proud and 

true, 
With the Prince of the land on her bosom, and her own 

brown baby too. 

' And the Rajput women will have it (I know not myself of 

these things) 
As the two babes lay in her lap there, her lord s, and the 

Jondhpore King's, 
So loyal was the blood of her body, so fast the faith of her 

heart. 
It passed to her new-born infant, who took of her trust its 

part. 

' He would not suck of the breast-milk till the Prince had 

drunken his fill ; 
He would not sleep to the cradle-song till the Prince was 

lulled and still ; 
1 The RajpCit dynasty is said to be descended from the sun. 



240 Latter-Day Ballads, 

And he lay at night with his small arms clasped round the 
Rana's child, 

As if those hands like the rose-leaf could shelter from trea- 
son wild. 

' For treason was wild in the country, and villanous men 

had sought 
The life of the heir of the gadi,^ to the Palace in secret 

brought ; 
With bribes to the base, and with knife-thrusts for the 

faithful, they made their way 
Through the line of the guards, and the gateways, to the 

hall where the women lay. 

* There Moti, the foster-mother, sat singing the children 

to rest. 
Her baby at play on her crossed knees, and the King's 

son held to her breast ; 
And the dark slave-maidens round her beat low on the 

cymbal's skin, 
Keeping the time of her soft song — when — Saheb ! — 

there hurried in 

' A breathless watcher, who whispered, with horror in eyes 
and face : 

" Oh, Moti ! men come to murder my Lord the Prince 
in this place ! 

They have bought the help of the gate-guards, or slaugh- 
tered them unawares ; 

Hark ! that is the noise of their tulwars,^ the clatter upon 
the stairs ! " 

1 The 'seat,' or throne. 2 Indian swords. 



' A Rajput Nurse! 241 

' For one breath she caught her baby from her lap to her 
heart, and let 

The King's child sink from her nipple, with lips still cling- 
ing and wet, 

Then tore from the Prince his head-cloth, and the putta of 
pearls from his waist, 

And bound the belt on her infant, and the cap on his brows, 
in haste ; 

' And laid her own dear offspring, her flesh and blood, on 

the floor, 
With the girdle of pearls around him, and the cap that the 

King's son wore ; 
While close to her heart, which was breaking, she folded 

the Raja's joy. 
And — even as the murderers lifted the purdah — she fled 

with his boy. 

' But there (so they deemed) in his jewels, lay the Chota 

Rana,^ the heir; 
" The cow with two calves has escaped us," cried one, " it 

is right and fair 
She should save her own butcha ; ^ no matter ! the edge of 

the dagger ends 
This spark of Lord Raghoba's sunlight ; stab thrice and 

four times, O friends ! " 

' And the Rajput women will have it (I know not if this 

can be so) 
That Moti's son in the putta and golden cap cooed low 

1 ' Little King.' 2 - Little one.' 

16 



242 Latter-Day Ballads. 

When the sharp blades met in his small heart, with never 

one moan or wince, 
But died with a babe's light laughter, because he died for 

his Prince. 

' Thereby did that Rajput mother preserve the line of our 

Kings.' 
'Oh, Vittoo,' I said, 'but they gave her much gold and 

beautiful things. 
And garments and land for her people, and a home in the 

Palace ! May be 
She had grown to love that Princeling even more than the 

child on her knee.' 



'May it please the Presence,' quoth Vittoo, 'it seemeth 

not so ! they gave 
The gold and the garments and jewels, as much as the 

proudest would have ; 
But the same night deep in her true heart she buried a 

knife, and smiled, 
Saying this : " I have saved my Rana ! I must go to suckle 

my child ! " ' 



Lady Yeardleys Guest, 243 



By Margaret J. Preston. 

LADY YEARDLEY'S GUEST.^ 

1654. 

'T WAS a Saturday night, midwinter, 

And the snow with its sheeted pall 
Had covered the stubbled clearings 

That girdled the rude-built ' Hall.' 
But high in the deep-mouthed chimney, 

'Mid laughter and shout and din, 
The children were piling yule-logs 

To welcome the Christmas in. 

' Ah, so ! We '11 be glad to-morrow,' 

The mother half-musing said. 
As she looked at the eager workers. 

And laid on a sunny head 
A touch as of benediction, — • 

' For Heaven is just as near 
The father at far Patuxent 

As if he were with us here. 

' So choose ye the pine and holly, 

And shake from their boughs the snow ; 

We '11 garland the rough-hewn rafters 
As they garlanded long ago, — 



!44 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Or ever Sir George went sailing 
Away o'er the wild sea-foam, — 

In my beautiful English Sussex, 
The happy old walls at home.' 

She sighed. As she paused, a whisper 

Set quickly all eyes astrain : 
' See ! See f — and the boy's hand pointed 

' T/iere 's a face at the window-pane ! ' 
One instant a ghastly terror 

Shot sudden her features o'er ; 
The next, and she rose unblenching, 

And opened the fast-barred door. 

Who be ye that seek admission ? 

Who Cometh for food and rest } 
This night is a night above others 

To shelter a straying guest.' 
Deep out of the snowy silence 

A guttural answer broke : 
' 1 came from the great Three Rivers, 

I am Chief of the Roanoke.' 

Straight in through the frightened children, 

Unshrinking, the red man strode, 
And loosed on the blazing hearthstone, 

From his shoulder, a light-borne load; 
And out of the pile of deer-skins. 

With look as serene and mild 
As if it had been in its cradle. 

Stepped softly a four-year child. 



Lady Yeai^dleys Guest. 245 

As he chafed at the fire his fingers, 

Close pressed to the brawny knee, 
The gaze that the silent savage 

Bent on him was strange to see ; 
And then, with a voice whose yearning 

The father could scarcely stem, 
He said, to the children pointing, 

' I want him to be like them ! 

' They weep for the boy in the wigwam : 

I bring him, a moon of days, 
To learn of the speaking paper ; 

To hear of the wiser ways 
Of the people beyond the water; 

To break with the plough the sod ; 
To be kind to pappoose and woman ; . 

To pray to the white man's God.' 

' I give thee my hand ! ' And the lady 

Pressed forward with sudden cheer ; 
' Thou shalt eat of my English pudding, 

And drink of my Christmas beer. 
My darlings, this night, remember 

All strangers are kith and kin, — 
This night when the dear Lord's Mother 

Could find no room at the inn. 

Next morn from the colony belfry 

Pealed gayly the Sunday chime, 
And merrily forth the people 

Flocked, keeping the Christmas time: 



246 L at 1 67^- Day Ballads. 

And the lady, with bright-eyed children 

Behind her, their lips a-smile, 
And the chief in his skins and wampum, 

Came walking the narrow aisle. 

Forthwith from the congregation 

Broke fiercely a sullen cry : 
' Out / out / with the crafty red-skin ! 

Have at him / A spy ! A spy I ' 
And quickly from belts leaped daggers, 

And swords from their sheaths flashed bare. 
And men from their seats defiant 

Sprang, ready to slay him there. 

But facing the crowd with courage 

As calm as a knight of yore. 
Stepped bravely the fair-browed woman 

The thrust of the steel before ; 
And spake with a queenly gesture, 

Her hand on the chief's brown breast: 
' Ye dare not impeach my houor / 

Ye dare not insult my guest / ' 

They dropped, at her word, their weapons. 

Half-shamed as the lady smiled. 
And told them the red man's story. 

And showed them the red man's child ; 
And pledged them her broad plantations, 

That never would such betray 
The trust that a Christian woman 

Had shown on a Christmas Day ! 



TJie King and the Huntsman. 247 



By Stopford A. Brooke. 



THE KING AND THE HUNTSMAN. 

The king and his huntsman are gone to the chase, 
And the huntsman's son with them ; 

Two nights they lay, and two days they rode, 
Till they came to the forest's hem. 

'Oh, what are these meadows,' the king he said, 
'And this stream that runs in flood; 

And why is the grass as green as a corpse. 
And the stream as red as blood ? 

' Is this the meadow and this the stream,' 
And he laughed both loud and free : 
Where it 's twenty years I loved a maid, 
And sorely she loved me ? ' 

Then up and spakethe huntsman dark, 

And he was deadly fell. 
* Now draw your dagger, my son,' he said, 

' And send this king to hell. 

' Revenge burns slow, but it flames at last — 

The maiden was my daughter. 
She broke her heart for thee and shame. 

And died in this wild water. 



248 Lattei-Day Ballads. 

* Nor wife nor child, but the carrion crow 

Shall hear thy dying groan, 
And Ellen's stream shall be red with thy blood, 

And the wolves strip thy breastbone.' 

Then the king grew pale as the snow at dawn, 

And he bared his hunting-knife ; 
*0h, woe that I left my good deer-hound, 

For I should not lose my life.' 

*I slew him first,' the huntsman said. 
And fierce at the king he ran ; 
Strike down at his back, my son, strike hard, 
For he shall not die like a man.' 

And they washed their hands in the red, red blood. 

And over the seas to Spain ; 
And the only sextons that buried the king 

Were the wild beasts and the rain. 



Before the Party. 249 



Bv A. C. Gordon 



BEFORE THE PARTY. 

Yes, honey, you lyint'ly is party ; 

How long 'fo' de ball gwi' begin ? 
' Some time yet ? ' An' when you 's all dancin'. 

Can't yer ole Mammy come an' peep in ? 

Dat white silk, it sho'ly do suit you — 
An' dem vi'lets wropt inter yer hyar ; 

Mars' Ranny loves dem sort o' blossoms — 
I 'spec', Baby, dat 's why dey 's dar. 

Lord, chile ! you looks jes' like yer mother. 

When you turn yer head sideways, dat way; 
Has you been showed yerself ter ole Marster? 

You has, hey ? An' what did he say ? 

« He never said nothin'— jes' only 
His mouf twich like ketchin' a cry; 

An' he kissed you, an' turn off an' lef you, 
Wid de water done come ter his eye ?' 

Yes, honey, you 's like her : dat 's gospel ; 

An' I knows, by de way dat he done, 
Dat you fotch her up ter him adzactly, 

An' de ole times dat 's over an' gone. 



250 Latter- Day Ballads. 

She used ter w'ar vi'lets clat summer — 
He loved 'em, like Mars' Ranny do — 

Her fus' season at de White Suff'rer, 
When she was a young gal like you. 

I went wid her dar, dat ar season — 
Dey called her de Belle o' de Springs ; 

De young bucks run crazy about her — 
You never did see sich fool things ! 



But Marster was dar, de bes'-lookin' 
An' de smartcs', I hearn 'em all say; 

An' he owned a Jeems River plantation, 
An' so he jes' kerried de day. 

She w'ared a white dress de fus' ebenin' 
She danced at de ball ; an' she hel' 

Some vi'lets like dem in her fingers — 
I 'members it all very well. 

I has n't no doubt dat ole Marster, 

When he seed you, he thought o' dat night; 
An' mebbe some other times, honey. 

When he 'membered her 'rayed out in white. 

Now I thinks, she was drest de same fashion 
At de weddin' at Springfield, you know; 

Some vi'lets de onlies' color, 

An' her white silk mo' shiny dan snow ; 



Before the Party. 251 

An', Baby, her fingers wropt over 

Fresh blossoms, fotch f'om de ole place, 

Like dem ; an' white garmen's was on her, 
De las' time I looked at her face. 



It do make me feel sorter ole-like, 

Fur ter see you growed hansum an' tall ; 

I hardly considered it, honey, 

'Twel you fixed up ter 'ten' yer fus' ball — 

'Ca'se you 's never seemed nothin' but Baby, 
An' it looks sich a short time ago : 

Yes, Mistis, I 'm gwi' come an' see you. 
When you dances wid Mars' Ranny, sho'. 



NOTES AND INDEXES. 



AUTHORS' NOTES. 



Note i, page 31. The Doncaster St. Leger. 'This poem is in- 
tended to illustrate the spirit of Yorkshire racing, now un- 
happily, or happily, as the case may be, on the decline. The 
perfect a-cquaintance of every peasant on the ground with the 
pedigrees, performances, and characters of the horses en- 
gaged, his genuine interest in the result, and the mixture of 
hatred and contempt which he used to feel for the New- 
market favorites who came down to carry off his great natural 
prize, must be well known to any one who forty years ago 
crossed the Trent in August or September. Altogether it 
constituted a peculiar modification of English feeling, which 
I thought deserved to be recorded ; and in default of a more 
accomplished Pindar, I have here endeavored to do so.' To 
line 17, page 32, ' When, strong of heart, the Wentworth Bay,' 
the author has the following explanatory note : ' Bay Malton, 
King Herod, the champion of Newmarket in the famous race 
alluded to above, broke a blood-vessel in the crisis of the 
contest.' 

Note 2, page 39. Winstanley. 'This ballad was intended to 
be one of a set, and was read to the children in the National 
Schools at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, in order to discover 
whether, if the actions of a hero were simply and plainly 
narrated, English children would like to learn by heart the 
verses recording them, as their forefathers did.' 



256 Latter- Day Ballads. 

Note 3, page 117. The Pearl of the Philippines. ' This apologue, 
or the germ of it, will be found in the narrative of a French 
writer, who claimed to have resided for upward of twenty 
years in the Philippines, and to have derived it from a native. 
The motif is different in the original, where the vow was 
made in order to obtain the love of a woman, and not to 
save the life of a child.' 

Note 4, page 146. The King's Tragedy. ' Tradition says that 
Catherine Douglas, in honor of her heroic act when she 
barred the door with her arm against the murderers of James 
the First of Scots, received popularly the name of " Barlass." 
The name remains to her descendants, the Barlas family, in 
Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken arm. She mar- 
ried Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie. A few stanzas from 
King James's lovely poem known as The King's Quhair, 
are quoted in the course of the ballad. The writer must ex- 
press regret for the necessity which has compelled him to 
shorten the ten-syllabled lines to eight syllables, in order 
that they might harmonize with the ballad metre.' 

Note 5, page 199. Ballad of Metz. * This incident actually be- 
fell a private in a Massachusetts Volunteer regiment, belong- 
ing to the Fifth Corps, at the battle of Malvern Hill.' 

Note 6. page 204. Jiitzi Schultheiss. 'Jiitzi Schultheiss, a Me- 
diaeval Mystic, loses her gift of trance and vision, because in 
a moment of anger she refuses to pray for some turbulent 
knights.' 

Note 7, page 243. Lady Yeardlefs Guest. ' Sir George Yeard- 
ley was Governor of the Colony of Virgina in 1626.' 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



Azenor, by Lewis Morris, page i8o. Songs Unsung, 1883. 
Ballad, by May Kendall, page 227. Breams to Sell, 1887. 
Ballad of Isobel, by John Payne, page 126. New Poems, 1880. 
Ballad of Judas Iscariot (The), by Robert Buchanan, page 88. 

Poetical Works, 1874. 
Ballad of Metz (A), by Louise Imogen Guiney, page 199. Songs 

at the Start, 1884. 
Ballad of the Thulian Nurse, by George Macdonald, page 27. 

Alec Forbes of Howglen, 1865. 
Before Sedan, by Henry Austin Dobson, page 86. Vignettes in 

Rhyme and Vers de Societe, 1873. 
Before the Party, by A. C. Gordon, page 249. Befor' de War : 

Echoes i7t Negro Dialect, 1888. 
Boat-Race (The), by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, page 194. ' From 

Grave to Gay,^ 1884. 
Courtin' (The), by James Russell Lowell, page 17. The Big- 
low Papers, Second Series, 1 864. 
Death of th' Owd Squire (The), by George Walter Thornbury, 

page 80. Historical and Legendary Ballads and Songs, 1873. 
Dickens in Camp, by Francis Bret Harte, page 78. Poems, 1871. 
Doncaster St. Leger (The), by Sir Francis Hastings Charles 

Doyle, page 31. The Return of the Guards, and other Poems, 

1866. 

17 



258 Latter-Day Ballads. 

Doorstep (The), by Edmund Clarence Stedman, page 57. The 

Blameless Prince, and other Poems, 1S69. 
First Quarrel (The), by Lord Tennyson, page 140. Ballads and 

other Poems, 1880. 
Forced Recruit (The), by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, page 13. 

Last Poems, 1862. 
Gulf (The), by Emily Davis Pfeiffer, page no. Poe??is, 1876. 
Hajarlis, by Richard Hengist Home, page loi. Cosmo de Medici, 

An Historical Tragedy, and other Poems, 1875. 
Haystack in the Floods (The), by William Morris, page i. 

The Defence of Guenevere, and other Poems, 1858. 
Herve Riel, by Robert Browning, page 104. Pacchiarotto, and 

how he worked in Distemper : with other Poems, 1876. 
In School-Days, by John Greenleaf Whittier, page 66. Mir i am 

and other Poems, 1 87 1 . 
Jessie Cameron, by Christina Georgina Rossetti, page 59. The 

Prince's Progress, and other Poems, 1870. 
Jiitzi Schultheiss, by Agnes Mary Frances Robinson, page 204. 

The New Arcadia, and other Poems, 1884. 
King and the Huntsman (The), by Stopford A. Brooke, page 247. 

Poems, 1888. 
King's Tragedy (The), by Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti, page 

146. Ballads a7id Sonnets, 1881. 
Lady Alice, by William Allingham, page 115. Songs, Ballads, 

and Stories, 1884. 
Lady Yeardley's Guest, by Margaret J. Preston, page 243. Colo- 
nial Ballads, Sonnets, and other Verse, 1887. 
Lost and Found, by Hamilton Aide, page 176. Rhymes aiid 

Recitations, 1882. 
Love-Child (The), by William Barnes, page 15. Third Collec- 
tion of Poems in Dorset Dialect, 1863. 
Mass for the Dead (The), by Sabine Baring-Gould, page 51. 

Silver Store Collected from Mediceval, Christian, and Jeivisk 

Mines, 1868. 



Bibliographical Notes. 259 

Pearl of the Philippines (The), by Richard Henry Stoddard 

page 117. Poems, 1880. 
' Rajput Nurse (A),' by Sir Edwin Arnold, page 238. Lotus and 

Jewel, containing ' In an Indian Temple,^ 'A Casket of Gems,'' 

''A Queen'' s Revenge,^ with other Poems, 1887. 
Revenge of Hamish (The), by Sidney Lanier, page 187. Poems, 

1884. 
Sir Richard Grenville's Last Fight, by Gerald Massey, page 8. 

Poems, i860. 
Sister Mary of the Plague, by Eugene Lee-Hamilton, page 213. 

Apollo and Marseyas, and other Poems, 1884. 
Story of Naples (A), by Francis Turner Palgrave, page 68. 

Lyrical Poenis, 187 1. 
Willy Gilliland, by Sir Samuel Fergusson, page 21. Lays of the 

Western Gael, 1865. 
Winstanley, by Jean Ingelow, page 39. A Story of Doom, and 

other Poems, 1867. 
Woman's Love (A), by John Hay, page 64. Pike County Ballads, 

and other Pieces, 187 1. 
Woodstock Maze, by William Bell Scott, page 96. Ballads, 

Studies from Nature, Sonttets, etc., 1875. 
Young Princess (The), by George Meredith, page 230. Ballads 

and Poems of Tragic Life, 1887. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting 78 

Against the long quays of Naples 68 

All day unflagging in his stall 51 

A sentinel-angel sitting high in glory 64 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 17 

Had she come all the way for this i 

Here, m this leafy place • • 86 

He said : * The shadows darken down 227 

I Catherine am a Douglas born 146 

' I hear, Relempagq, that you 117 

I loved Hajarlis, and was loved loi 

In her work there is no flagging 213 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him 13 

It was three slim does and a ten-tined buck in the bracken 

lay 187 

' Jessie, Jessie Cameron 59 

Leon went to the wars I99 

Now what doth Lady Alice so late on the turret stair . . 115 

' Oh, never shall any one find you then ! ' 96 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two . 104 

Our second Richard Lion Heart 8 

Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes 39 

' Seamen, seamen, tell me true 180 



262 Index of First Lines, 

Page 

Some miners were sinking a shaft in Wales 176 

Still sits the school-house by the road 66 

' Sweep up the flure, Janet 27 

The conference-meeting through at last 57 

The day is dead, the night draws on 126 

The gift of God was mine ; I lost 204 

The king and his huntsman are gone to the chase . . . 247 

The only son of the Count Lasserre no 

There 's a living thread that goes winding, winding . . . 194 

The sun is bright, the sky is clear 34 

'Twas a Saturday night, midwinter 243 

'Twas a wild mad kind of a night, as black as the bottom- 
less pit 80 

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot 88 

Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring .... 21 

* Wait a little,' you say, ' you are sure it will all come right ' 140 

When the South sang like a nightingale 230 

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride 15 

' Whose tomb have they builded, Vittoo, under this tam- 
arind-tree 238 

Yes, honey, you p'int'ly is purty 249 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 

Aide, Hamilton 176 

Allingham, William 115 

Arnold, Sir Edwin 238 

Baring-Gould, Sabine 51 

Barnes, William 15 

Brooke, Stopford A 247 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 13 

Browning, Robert . 104 

Buchanan, Robert 88 

Cholmondeley-Pennell, H 194 

DoBsoN, Henry Austin 86 

Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings Charles 31 

Fergusson, Sir Samuel 21 

Gordon, A. C 249 

Guiney, Louise Imogen 199 

Harte, Francis Bret 78 

Hay, John 64 

Horne, Richard Hengist loi 

Ingelow, Jean 39 

Kendall, May 227 

Lanier, Sidney 187 

Lee-Hamilton, Eugene 213 

Lowell, James Russell 17 



264 Index of AntJiors. 

Page 

Macdonald, George 27 

Massey, Gerald 8 

Meredith, George 230 

Morris, Lewis i8o 

Morris, William i 

Palgrave, Francis Turner 68 

Payne, John 126 

Pfeiffer, Emily no 

Preston, Margaret J 243 

Robinson, Agnes Mary Frances 204 

Rossetti, Christina Georgina 59 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 146 

Scott, William Bell 96 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence 57 

Stoddard, Richard Henry 117 

Tennyson, Lord 140 

Thornbury, George Walter 80 

Whittier, John Greenleaf 66 



n 



University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 



